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Pantera – Cowboys From Hell, 20 years later

August 19th, 2010 No Comments

Cowboys From Hell album cover

Pantera – Cowboys From Hell

A heavy metal landmark

A landmark metal record is celebrating its 20th anniversary this year.  The Texas quartet Pantera released Cowboys From Hell in 1990 and succeeded in influencing many hard rock artists with their style of “groove metal” during the two decades following Cowboys’ release.  Originally released on ATCO Records, Cowboys was such a drastic departure from Pantera’s earlier, independently-released, hair metal albums that the group and most of their fans consider it to be their proper debut.  The album eventually received Platinum certification earlier in 2010, buoyed in part by the inclusion of the title track in the Guitar Hero 2 video game.  There are several other reasons for the album’s staying power and for its consideration as a “classic” rock record here on classicrockmusicblog.com, chief among them the fantastic guitar playing of Darrell Abbott and the flexible vocals of singer Phil Anselmo.  This blog entry discusses a few examples of the group’s groundbreaking performances that stood out to me while I was listening to the Rhino Records 180-gram, double vinyl reissue copy that I’ve recently acquired.

Being a latecomer to Pantera’s music, I had only been familiar with a handful of tracks on Cowboys From Hell.  I did not realize that the record was produced by one of my favorite metal producers, Terry Date (Soundgarden, Fishbone, Slipknot), who actually compresses a bit too much of Pantera’s sound than I would prefer on this recording.  My son and a few of my co-workers had turned me on to the title track, the brutal “Primal Concrete Sledge” and the brilliant “Cemetery Gates” some years ago, but it’s a kick to hear those songs now within the context of the record’s full artistic statement.

Leading off with the song “Cowboys From Hell,” the record drops the listener into a riff that’s seemingly picked up as the studio’s machinery is first fired up.  The riff-master is, of course, “Diamond” (not yet known as “Dimebag”) Darrell who’s exhibiting a powerful combination of range, speed, and rhythm and continues to do so throughout the course of the album.  He’s not only the main instigator of the song’s groove, but a very innovative soloist.  As the group’s sole guitarist, he’s obviously required to wear a few different hats, but that doesn’t guarantee that he’ll be successful at all the tasks required of him.  Abbott, however, possessed the skills to impress on multiple levels simultaneously.  I know that he’s supported by his brother Vinnie Paul on drums and Rex Brown on bass, but the recording unfortunately does not break the sounds of the musicians apart as much as I wished it did.  The drums don’t sound enough like drums and instead are very heavily treated.  The bass is a bit too murky for my tastes and Brown’s performance, as on the rest of the record, mostly straddles the line between keeping up with the drummer and echoing the melody of the rhythm guitar.  The song is thus exemplary of the rest of the album in that it’s really all about the capabilities of Darrell and how his performance inspires the rest of the group to attempt to match his accomplishments.  The exception is Anselmo, who seems to be in a world of his own.  The song’s lyrics are rather dopey, “we’re comin’ to yer town to get ya” rudimentary metal clichés, and that gives Anselmo the freedom to deliver them any damn way he pleases.  He delivers in spades with his pre-heroin, pre-barking-into-the-microphone-through-cupped-hands form that’s about 80% James Hetfield and 20% Rob Halford.  Glimmers of the hair metal days shine through, but he’s only retained the best elements of that style in favor of something altogether different and infinitely more powerful.  That I’ve devoted so many words to a single song ought to tip you off to the fact that there are a lot of things going on here.  It’s the perfect record opener and also the perfect title to use for the name of the album.

A flip of the vinyl and a skip of the needle to the track “Cemetery Gates” reveals a depth to Pantera’s music that was only occasionally reached on future recordings.  I’ve read other blogger’s descriptions of this song as being Pantera’s “Stairway To Heaven” and I heartily agree in that the song is at times lush, beautiful, moving, jam-heavy and chilling while also being atypical of the rest of the band’s catalog.  Anselmo is singing of his reflections upon attending the funeral of a lover and his search for a way to deal with his loss and move on with his life.  Over the course of the song, he employs every weapon in his vocal arsenal: near operatic phrase-enders verging on the style of Queensryche’s Geoff Tate, astoundingly complimentary harmony lines, Halford-esque falsetto trade-offs with Darrell’s guitar tones, and crushing screams a la Testament’s Chuck Billy.  Darrell’s delivery also draws upon all he’s capable of as well from ornate acoustic sections, to piercing pinched harmonics, to fuzzed-up riffage.  Rex Brown’s bass moves from holding the rhythm while Darrell deviates to fill, to body-jarring tones.  Vinnie also steps to the fore with occasional, rhythm-breaking, cross-kit battery.  The co-worker that shared this song with me is in no way a metalhead and the comp on which he included the track also included two-tone British ska and Brazilian pop.  I’m not saying that Pantera will also appeal to all fans of those types of music, but “Cemetery Gates” certainly struck a chord with at least one music buff that didn’t include much metal in his regular diet.  It’s a phenomenal song by any music fan’s standards.

“Cemetery Gates” is followed up by “Domination,” a violent call for rebellion issued through the description of the alternative to freewill.  The song is pure thrash with some of Anselmo’s most tortured singing on all of Cowboys.  Vinnie Paul’s double bass drum is used to great effect in setting up each of Anselmo’s phrases and Darrell delivers a duo of blinding solos.  His hyper-kinetic fill over the tune’s slowed-down ending is jaw-dropping.

The third side of my double-vinyl version of Cowboys also yields a few songs worth mentioning.  “Clash With Reality” has another of those unbeatable riffs in the song’s set-up and then, to a lesser degree underneath Anselmo’s far-ranging assault.  Here he’s sounding more like John Bush from Armored Saint as if Bush was trapped in a torture chamber.  The solo delivered by Darrell is not metal in any way, but it fits perfectly in the midst of the band’s circular time changes and penetrating groove.  Hot on its heels is “Medicine Man,” a tale of a charismatic shaman told through lower register spoken word and blistering falsetto.  It’s perhaps one of the darker songs on the record, but sets up Darrell’s blindingly fast solo better than most.  In fact, Darrell’s stinging harmony leads serve as a clever tribute to Judas Priest and also a shocking contrast to Anselmo’s creepy gloom.

Cowboys From Hell was not Pantera’s breakthrough recording, but it was the first to begin presenting the style with which they’re best remembered.  There is a glut of ideas presented here that were spawned from their choice to abandon image and focus purely on the music they could create.  There were several more releases that followed Cowboys which not only cracked the market wide and gave them more radio airplay, but also solidified their sound and Anselmo’s more gruff and pained delivery.  Cowboys From Hell is easily a metal classic and contains one song, “Cemetery Gates,” which is worth the purchase of the entire album and stands out as one of the finest rock songs ever recorded.  I can safely say that I’ll look back 20 years from now and be able to say the same things about this exemplary album.

-Mark Polzin

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Thin Lizzy-”Johnny The Fox”: What went wrong?

August 3rd, 2010 2 Comments

Thin LIzzy-Johnny The Fox album cover

Thin Lizzy
Johnny The Fox album review

Irish hard rock band Thin Lizzy certainly knew how to take the wind out of their own sails.  After the phenomenal success of the Jailbreak album, a resulting tour should have pulled all the unconverted rockers over to their camp.  However band leader/vocalist/bassist Phil Lynott contracted hepatitis and was sidelined from the road.  Never one to rest, Lynott proceeded to write a follow-up album during his recuperation, and thus was born 1976’s Johnny The Fox.  All the elements of the classic Thin Lizzy sound are present—twin harmony guitars, Lynott’s soulful vocals, workingman narrative lyrics—but the record lacked the magic of its predecessor and was also missing a standout track such as “The Boys Are Back In Town” or “Jailbreak.”  Despite this, it remains a classic ’70s rock record and one which I’m proud to say I’ve finally been able to cross off of my “must buy” list.

Johnny The Fox appears to be a sort of half-hearted concept album with its repeated use of characters, but one linear theme is not maintained throughout.  Instead we’re presented with Lynott’s familiar tales of love and love lost, greed, fighting, and dreams.  And although Thin Lizzy tends to be lumped into the hard rock category, they continued to delve into other genres such as funk, folk, and country.  It’s notable that this is the last record on which guitarist Brian Robertson appears on all tracks and his chemistry with longtime axe slinger Scott Gorham is as dynamic as on the Jailbreak album.  Further, drummer Brian Downey nearly steals the show from Lynott himself.  His unshakeable rhythms were clearly the glue that held this band together.

So what went wrong?  Why didn’t Thin Lizzy become the superstars that they should be?  True, their influence can be felt across many generations of rock and roll bands, but they’re not nearly as well known as contemporaries such as Aerosmith, Deep Purple or even REO Speedwagon.  It’s actually a bit baffling that this record was not appreciated at the time of its release, but I think the answer lies more in the importance of touring in support of an album’s release in the ‘70s than it does in the actual material contained therein.  In fact, you can drop this record’s name to any fan of hard rock and they’ll tell you that they love it.  Unfortunately, that loves exists 34 years too late and long after the death of Lynott.

Track by track, the album jumps all over the place.  But that was also the case with Jailbreak.  The first cut, “Johnny,” is as groovy as it gets.  The subdued guitar line in combination with Lynott’s bass is completely seductive and Downey’s fills are ridiculously good.  One complaint, and this is also true of many Thin Lizzy recordings, is that there’s not enough separation of the instruments and Lynott’s vocals are not brought up higher in the mix.  Producer John Alcock is to blame here, but those that followed in his footsteps only did marginally better at correcting this problem.  In fact, there are horns on the song “Johnny” that are oddly buried beneath everything else.

The second cut, “Rocky,” is also a clever rock tune with great use of the harmony guitars on the bridge and synchronization of the guitars and bass on the verses.  Lynott’s voice has more soul in one syllable than most singers develop throughout their entire careers as he sings of Rocky Rock, the Rock and Roll Star.  The music falls short of what I would consider “metal” and is more like the electrified R&B championed by The Who and The Small Faces but kicked up to a higher level and maintaining a superior groove.

Speaking of groove, it doesn’t get much funkier on a rock record than what’s laid down on “Johnny The Fox Meets Jimmy The Weed.”  If I sampled records for breakbeats, which I don’t, I’d be all over this song.  Lynott delivers some nearly disco bass fills and his voice is gritty and comin’ atcha from street level on this tale of the criminal underworld.  The guitars scratch and soar alternately to set mood, but no one seems all too eager to jump out into the spotlight and the solo is rather unimpressive.  When Lynott wants to sing about crossing the paths of a former lover as on “Old Flame,” he’s similarly restrained.  There’s nothing really “wrong” about this mid-tempo ballad and the performances are actually quite good, but no one, not even the singer is allowed to run away with anything at all.  The guitar solo’s a pretty mass of crying tones and trills, but seems to be cut short before a full idea can develop.  The thought here may have been to use this song as the single and therefore abbreviate it to allow for airplay. A shame.

And just when we think there won’t be any surprises allowed on the album, the last track erupts to blow us all away.  “Boogie Woogie Dance” contains one of the most complex drum parts you’ll hear outside of a Rush record as Downey totally assumes control.  This song is kind of a throwaway because it’s not really telling a story in the way that we’re used to hearing one from Lynott.  Instead it’s a showpiece for exactly how tight and imaginative this lineup of Thin Lizzy was.  Lyrically it’s Lynott’s take on “Land Of A Thousand Dances” and will never be considered one of Lizzy’s best songs, unfortunately.  Sometimes just farting around in the studio can produce some amazing results.

Whatever your opinion of Johnny The Fox, it’s a great snapshot of what was going on with Thin Lizzy during their roller coaster flirtation with success in the mid-70s.  I don’t regret buying it for an instant and owning it will likely lead me to tracking down more of their studio work.  I just can’t help feeling a bit sad that the record served more to hold them back than to push them forward at this critical period in their career.

- Mark Polzin

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The Cure-Disintegration

August 2nd, 2010 2 Comments

The Cure-Disintegration album cover

The Cure-Disintegration
Album review

In celebration of the 21st anniversary of the release of The Cure’s commercial breakthrough, Disintegration, Rhino Records has issued a special-edition double album, 180-gram vinyl version of the record.  In listening to my recently acquired copy, I’m reminded of the darkly brooding majesty of this album and why, in many ways, this is the most important release in their catalog.

It’s 1988 and Robert Smith is approaching the age of 30.  Despite the recent success of the double album Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me and the ensuing tour in support of its release, depression has set in.  Smith decides that all important artists have released their magnum opus before that magic age and he has yet to produce a work which satisfies him in that regard.  Depression gives way to self-treatment with LSD, and the combination of barren thoughts and bent reality slowly oozes into the music Smith begins writing.  Casting aside the pop experimentation found on Cure records from the four previous years, Smith returns to a sound with which the band has been primarily identified, the “goth rock” murk last visited on Pornography.  Those ideas are expanded upon, layered, labored over, and revered as Disintegration.  Composed of 12 epic songs averaging over six minutes in length, it is the masterpiece Smith sought to create.

Generalizations can be made when discussing Disintegration and those clichés involve typical descriptors of The Cure’s sound, but the depths plumbed by Smith in the creation of this record produced archetypes rather than regurgitations.  Contrary to opinions from Elektra Records, who hoped Smith would pursue what they believed to be a more marketable path, the public had a differing view and were willing to accept whatever The Cure might release.  Their previous body of work had a strong cult following and the darkness found in early works by the group was as well loved as the pop singles infiltrating the airwaves.  Smith was ultimately right in following his own artistic path and at least four singles from Disintegration (“Pictures Of You,” “Lovesong,” Lullaby” and “Fascination Street”) were released to great success.

When I think of a “typical” Cure sound, I recall the powerful combination of Robert Smith’s underrated, heavily treated guitar, his tortured wail of a voice and the driving bass of Simon Gallup along with synthesizer contributions from Smith, Gallup, and the keyboardist du jour.  This sound does in fact permeate Disintegration, but there are a number of standout moments which bear further description.  Chief among them is the unabashed emotion found on “Lovesong.”  Listeners may have thought that Smith was singing this song sarcastically, but he was actually trying to sing the most honest love song he could sing as a wedding present to his fiancé.  It’s easily the most upbeat of the songs on the album and the shortest at just shy of 3 ½ minutes.  With its simplistic organ and drums beneath Smiths’ voice on the verses, its string pastiches and a concise solo from Smith, it’s the only thing that saves the record from becoming an absolute gloomfest.

Contrast “Lovesong” with “Last Dance” in perfect song sequencing to return to melancholic remembrance.  Gallup’s high register bass soon drops to the low end before Smith begins his tale inspired by the sadness of aging.  He’s telling a woman how glad he is that she came to see him, but he’s choking on his longing for how things used to be as he recites the lyrics.  “Fascination Street,” easily one of the best cuts on the record, follows soon after and remains another defining moment for Gallup.  There are not as many songs that are characterized by their bass lines as there are those for which the voice or melody summarize the piece.  The entire song seems to be based around his repetitive pattern, setting a stage for Smith to venomously encourage us to drape our goth flags around us as we move about the world.  Guitars are used more for effect than to “play us a tune” and Smith reveals his genius in choosing not to cut loose in his performance.

Some of the best lyrics are featured on “Prayers For Rain.”  Smith, his guitar running comparably clean of effects, uses “rain” and his relationship to the unnamed object metaphorically to describe any stifling situation.  He’s “suffocated,” “strangled,” “entangled,” “shattered,” and all the while praying for rain to rid him of the affliction.  Boris Williams’ drum pattern moving across the kit and down to the deeper toms deviates from Roger O’ Donnell’s synthesizer — lifting and attempting to reach a major chord yet never giving us that release.  This is perfected songcraft at its finest: complex in concept and simple in execution.

“Homesick,” a song that reads as the antithesis to “Lovesong,” demonstrates how Disintegration has an underlying theme of dissatisfaction and destruction running throughout.  Where Smith told his sweetheart that she makes him feel like he is home/whole again on the latter piece, “Homesick” has him describing being “stuck in honey” and being inspired with the desire “to never go home.”  He’s caught in something that he knows is not good for him, but the passion of the moment prevents him from seeing his true needs.  His paralysis provides an unholy nurture for the toxic relationship.

Even records that are viewed as marginal by critics and Cure fans alike have brought me great joy (odd that a band so dark can make one happy) over the years.  The more discerning collector should start with releases that best represent how Robert Smith’s tormented soul can be brought to light.  Disintegration is thus the obvious starting point and is as brilliant now as it was two decades ago.  Vinyl junkies should seek the version that I have for that rich sound that we’ve come to love from the Rhino reissue series, but those who are more digitally inclined should seek out the 3-disc CD package which includes all the B-sides and live material released in conjunction with Fiction/Elektra’s initial and lengthy promotion of the Cure’s best album.

- Mark Polzin

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Poco-Rose Of Cimarron

July 28th, 2010 2 Comments

Poco-Rose of Cimarron album cover

Poco – Rose Of Cimarron

Bargain LP of the week

How much music can you get for a buck these days? If a recent trip to a local used record store proves right, you can get an entire album for $1. I walked away from that afternoon of vinyl diving with a handful of albums that included Poco‘s 1976 release, Rose Of Cimarron.The record was just a shade below Near Mint-, and after a good wash with my Nitty Gritty record cleaner it was ready for action.

The bulk of the songwriting on Rose Of Cimarron is courtesy of Rusty Young and Paul Cotton, with soon-to-be Eagle, Timothy B. Schmit, composing two of the 10 total tracks. But the album is worth a buck for the title track alone. “Rose Of Cimarron” is Rusty Young’s masterpiece, a shimmering and intoxicating country-rock epic that runs 6 minutes 42 seconds.

And what an arrangement! From the three-part harmonies of Cotton, Schmit and drummer George Grantham, to the angelic highs of Schmit that later lifts the song into the clouds, this rose never wilts. Guiding it all is Young and his bevy of stringed instruments,  including acoustic guitar, 12-string electric guitar, mandolin, banjo and some of the finest dobro playing recorded to tape.

It all goes by so fast, you’ll be sad to hear the final strains of the grand piano and strings that fade like tears, just as the rolling chords of a banjo join and fade as well.

Along with the mesmerizing title track, Young strikes all the right chords on the joyous pairing of  country/rock/bluegrass on “Company’ Comin” and “Slow Poke.”

Not bad for a buck!

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KISS-Recollections of the Hottest Band in the land: Album #2, Hotter Than Hell

July 26th, 2010 No Comments

Kiss "Hotter Than Hell"

KISS – Recollections, Part II

Continuing on with our discussion of the KISS discography, Classicrockmusicblog.com publisher, Todd Whitesel, and I turn our attentions to the band’s bombastic, yet commercially disappointing second album, 1974’s Hotter Than Hell.

KISS – Hotter Than Hell

For many years, Hotter Than Hell was the gaping hole in my record collection.  The details of how I finally acquired it are shrouded in the mists of time, but I’d wager a guess that I’d purchased it through the Columbia Records Club.  Youngsters may not be familiar with the CRC, but it was one of those deals where you paid a penny to get umpteen records and only had to pay postage for them.  I joined, quit, and rejoined this “Club” and the similar RCA Records Club many, many times and picked up a ton of excellent albums in the process.

I was familiar with some of the songs on Hotter Than Hell from subsequent “best of” and live records (Double Platinum and Alive, reviews forthcoming), but wasn’t aware of the deep album cuts and was shocked to hear how raw this record was in comparison to the band’s debut.  Let’s face it; in the ‘70s bands would crank out two or three studio albums each year in between merciless tour schedules.  KISS was no exception and they felt they had to prove themselves to audiences and keep product in the marketplace.  Ultimately, KISS proved their talents best on stage (at first) rather than at the checkout counters.  And in listening to KISS’ sophomore release, it’s no wonder.  Like the A&R man in Tom Petty’s “Into The Great Wide Open” said, I don’t hear a single.  That doesn’t mean the songs aren’t stellar or, and this is where the esteemed Mr. Whitesel and I will disagree, even superior to the material found on their debut.  I’ll pick out a few of my favorite moments to discuss and leave room for Todd to chime in on his.

The finest moment on Hotter Than Hell has got to be the Ace Frehley-penned, Gene Simmons-sung “Parasite”.  This song foretells the coming of speed metal about 10 years before its actual arrival.  Frehley’s lead riff, sans accompaniment at the opening of the tune, seems not to fall within frame the band eventually sets for it.  It’s fast and off-kilter, raw and scratchy.  Peter Criss was at one time an excellent drummer and here’s Exhibit A.  Simmons’ vocals are purely demonic—great evidence that he was starting to fully immerse himself in the stage character he’d created.  Aside from the powerful riff, Frehley’s solo is one of the best of his career.  It’s a short burst of spazzing sixteenth notes and bending strings and not something we’d heard much in the mid-70s.

Speaking of the dark Mr. Simmons, give a listen to the perversion that is “Goin’ Blind.”  It’s the story of a doomed love affair between a 93-year old man and a 16-year old girl.  The chorus is completely irresistible and Simmons is in fine voice, but the chord changes attempt to incorporate every minor key known to man.  But the song is a good example of the lack of sharpness in the recording.  I happen to like the rough edges, but I’m weird that way.  What’s confounding about the change in the sound is that the band is working with the same producers and recording engineer that guided their first record.  No matter, “Goin’ Blind” is pure gold in my book—one of my favorites.

Play on to the record’s title track and Paul Stanley once again singing of a woman that’s both smoking hot and unattainable.  The catch this time is that the woman is married, not spurning Paul out of spite.  Poor Paul!  The band’s performance is quite good, but I can’t say that it’s really one of their best, nor am I certain of the reason why they named the album after the song. Putting the word “Hell” in your record’s title was a sure way to keep it out of the hands of kids with overprotective parents.  Who knows what may happen if those kids actually listened to the music? (Insert fire and brimstone here).

The record’s flipside contains some of the oddest moments KISS committed to vinyl.  Of course that means I love it all the more.  Opening with the stunning burst of guitar and a little cowbell for good measure is “All The Way.”  This is Simmons getting fed up to the point of getting pushed “All The Way.”  His voice and especially his bass are outstanding.  In fact, Simmons used to look for moments to put in little bass fills and this song with its neck slides presents an element that I’d wished he’d used more often through the years.

One more song that I’d like to mention is the Stanley-written, Criss-sung “Mainline.”  I used to love Peter’s lead vocals, and though he usually only stepped to the spotlight once per album, “Mainline” remains one of his best turns.  Much of this has to do with the chord changes written by Stanley and the “Baby won’t you give it to me one time” chorus.  It’s a showy moment for fans of The Faces and The Rolling Stones (which both Stanley and Criss were).  Really the whole band is in fine form on a song that’s essentially a throwaway.

So, all in all, I feel Hotter Than Hell is a much more exciting album than their first, but it’s hampered by the murky sound quality.  Don’t get me wrong, I like the debut a well, but Hotter Than Hell is a better example of a band having a ton of fun while trying to earn a buck. Over to you now, Todd, for your take.

-Mark Polzin

Though I said before that KISS’ debut album remains my favorite studio recording of the band, Hotter Than Hell has two of my favorite tunes. Mark already mentioned the strange and disturbing “Goin’ Blind,” so I’ll just add that the lumbering pre-historic riff gives the tune even more impact. When Simmons sings, “I’m 93, you’re 16…” one must wonder, though, which of the two people is truly goin’ blind! My other fave is Paul Stanley’s “Got To Choose.” It’s a simple 3-chord riff that sounds a bit like “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” played at half-speed with Simmons adding long bass slides for accent. Check out this YouTube video of KISS playing “Got To Choose” in 1975, live at Winterland for a peek into the past.

When I first heard “Parasite” I didn’t like it. The speed and angularity of the guitar riff along with Simmons’ bellows seemed far away from anything the band had done before, and “Parasite” sure was. It was a groundbreaking track, though, and as Mark rightly asserts, “Parasite” was the precursor to speed metal and the manic offerings from bands such as Motorhead. Listen to “Parasite” and then imagine Lemmy singing it.

In the category of songs that feature the cowbell, flip over to Side 2 for an overlooked classic in “Watchin’ You.” Another thunderous, revolving riff builds to a crescendo as Simmons sings/wails in wild desperation. Those performances make the early KISS albums bristle with energy and rawness that were practically gone by Love Gun.

I have a soft spot for “Let Me Go, Rock ‘N Roll,” too, for its anthemic quality and songwriting. Simmons was always found of using the word “baby” in his lyrics, and in “Let Me Go…” he rises to untold heights, showering us with 16 instances of the word in 2 minutes and 15 seconds. According to my calculations, that’s a baby being born every 8.4375 seconds! Don’t even talk about putting his baby in a corner!

-TW

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KISS – Recollections of the Hottest Band In The Land, Album #1

July 15th, 2010 No Comments

KISS-First album cover

Somewhere in the distance, an inbred kid is playing a series of beckoning banjo chords…

Anyone who knows me well understands that I have had a long-standing love/hate relationship with the band KISS.  After discussing this affliction with ClassicRockMusicBlog.com publisher, Todd Whitesel, we’ve decided to embark on a journey to define exactly what both of us love and hate about the group.  Some of these things, baffling television appearances, excessive marketing, abbreviated live shows, performances below that of their opening acts, are incidental.  We’re going to focus, instead, on KISS’ recordings in a chronological manner.  So, Sherman, please set the Wayback Machine for the year 1974 to help us examine KISS’ debut album.

KISS – KISS

Actually, in 1974, I was only 7 years old.  My love for rock music had not even begun.  But in 1977, a classmate of mine sold me KISS’ first record and Dressed To Kill for $1.00 each.  These were the first rock records I’d ever owned and I still have them to this day.  This was a very rebellious move for a fourth-grader in Central Wisconsin, as many parents would not even allow their kids to listen to “such garbage.”  It was my money and my parents never asked.  My fate was sealed.

Anyone who wasn’t into rock music would not “get” KISS and what they were trying to accomplish.  In fact, the photographer that snapped the cover photo (in a very Beatles-esque manner, by the way) thought they were some sort of circus clowns and he wanted to surround them with strings of balloons.  The lyrical content was waaaaayyyy over the heads of most of the underage fans and the artistic approach of using Kabuki-style make-up and New York Dolls’ gender-bending costuming was lost on squares living outside of the Big Apple.  Still, the music persevered despite stagnant record sales.  The songs written for their debut album are very well known by music fans and continue to be included in the set list on recent KISS tours.

If I were to wax rhapsodic about this album, I could easily write a page on each one of these songs.  The emotions and memories brought to life are numerous, but I’d easily lose your interest amid my foggy nostalgia.  I’ll choose a few highlights and then turn it over to Todd for his response.

The whole thing began with a song co-written by Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons called “Strutter.”  This will always be considered a KISS signature tune, with its lyrics about a woman who makes herself unattainable while driving on-looking men insane with her ravishing beauty.  The vocals are actually not some of Stanley’s best, but Ace Frehley’s guitar riff and solo are solid as is Simmons’ bass line.  Frankly, I’m a bit perplexed that it figures so high in their list of true classics.  The best thing I can say is that each member of the band is able to display their own identity and their parts are very well-recorded by producers Kenny Kerner and Richie Wise and engineer Warren Dewey.

As would be the case with KISS throughout their career, a Stanley-sung song is followed by one sung by Simmons.  Stanley is often considered their lead singer, but Simmons is usually the guy singing their “dirtier” songs and “Nothin’ To Lose” certainly fits the bill.  “Nothin’ To Lose” actually has Simmons singing the verses with drummer Peter Criss singing the chorus.  Both Simmons and Criss have their own distinctive rasp to their voices, however.  Frehley’s lead line owes a lot to his hero Keith Richards and his solo takes quite a few left turns.  The background vocals on the chorus: “You got got, nothin’ to lose,” which feature Simmons prominently, and the honky-tonk piano are probably the most memorable elements and they really allow Simmons to wear his Beatles love on his sleeve.  All this in a song, that Simmons reveals in later interviews, for a song about anal sex.

Stanley steps to the mic once again for his song “Firehouse.”  Again, this is a song which the band continues to perform live to this day.  Stanley often chose to sing more “romantic” songs or songs about women that were so hot he couldn’t stand it anymore.  “Firehouse” is the perfect example of the latter.  He’s only cooled off after the cheesy fire alarm sound effect near the end of the tune.  Although Stanley’s voice delivers the lead vocal, Simmons is very prominent in the background—one of the things I love about their early recordings.  Gene may be The Demon and he may have bedded thousands of women, but he’s a damn fine singer as well.

Skipping to the last track on side one, a lesser known gem called “Let Me Know”, we have a nice example of how Simmons and Stanley used to trade off on vocals.  Despite being written by Stanley, the song lets Simmons sing the verses.  This is may be one of their most early-Beatles-influenced songs in terms of the lyrical content.  But then, after a nice a capella spotlight, the jam kicks in. These guys were true rockers and they took us out of side one with a spectacular cascade of drum fills, rhythm groove and Frehley’s amazing lead.

If you had no idea that Gene Simmons was a kick-ass bassist, just give a listen to “100,000 Years.”  His noodling, which sets up the song for no more than a measure, sent us straight into the darker regions of the KISS catalog.  Frankly, I have no idea what Stanley is singing on this song that he’d co-written with Simmons, but I couldn’t care less.  Although more structured than anything recorded by Aerosmith, “100,000 Years” sounds a bit like them and blows them away with the performances.  Criss has room to show off, Frehley’s solo is incredible once more, and Stanley’s indecipherable vocals are some of the best of his career.

And now over to you, Mr. Whitesel.  Do you hate this record or mostly love it like I do?

-Mark Polzin

KISS – KISS

Wow, this takes me back to the mid-70s when I was first discovering rock  music. Like my colleague, Mark, I was also an apple-cheeked lad of 7 when KISS’ debut was released. It wouldn’t be until years later that I listened to the album proper, but I already knew 70% of the record through repeated listenings to KISS Alive! My next door neighbor and best friend, Steve Forte, had an older brother with a small but excellent record collection. As well, Steve’s dad had a sweet hi-fi system that we would get control of on many a weekend. I remember spinning two records over and over again: KISS Alive! and Kansas‘ Leftoverture. They remain two of my faves to this day.

Mark has already touched on “Strutter” and “Nothin’ To Lose”-both classics in the band’s catalog. I would only add that the riff to “Nothin’ To Lose” is one they don’t write anymore. Like so many of the early KISS gems, the guitars spin like spider webs or fractals; the beauty and form becoming more apparent with each verse and chorus.

What sets KISS’ first album apart from anything that followed or what their peers were doing is the hell-fire energy of the songs and playing. Listen to “Deuce” and it’s like hearing a guitarist “finding” a riff and a band stumbling upon a song instead of writing one. But it’s one of the most assured tunes Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Ace Frehley, and Peter Criss ever committed to tape. Often forgotten among the makeup and stage theatrics are the songs. In 1974, KISS wrote great rock songs with memorable riffs and instantly recognizable guitar solos courtesy of Ace Frehley.

And speaking of Ace, the subtle-shifting riff that bottles “Cold Gin” is  one of the things that made KISS so great. Frehley probably plucked it out one afternoon in 30 seconds, but that riff lives on for its grit, melody and attitude. The curious dichotomy of Gene Simmons-an adamant teetotaler-playing along to a tune advocating grabbing a bottle of the cheapest hooch is Hollywood “proof” that music is a business and not a religion. (The band-and fans-would suffer later for such views.)

KISS were never a group to write grand (or any) instrumentals, so “Love Theme From Kiss” retains a special place in my heart. The “theme” is redundant and never fully develops but I can still call on the melody and for that I’m grateful.

But it’s track 10, the final cut on Side 2, that cemented the deal for me. Whatever KISS were or would become, the band brought it big time, brought it all, with “Black Diamond.” Paul Stanley’s lament-laden minor-key arpeggios paint a starkly black picture before the startling heavy riff runs the song along the edge of a cliff. But it gets crazier. Peter Criss comes in with an absolutely manic vocal that sounds like he was gargling with a bucket of Gillette razors just moments earlier. As Criss’ cries fade, Frehley’s solo careens over Simmons’ bass broodings like magma, burbling from the center of the earth. Just when you think the song is over, comes the slow, dirge-like mantra that announces the glorious coda of “Black Diamond,” chord by tortured chord.

In 1974, there were few acts bringing music this savage to the public. Black Sabbath was heavy but rarely this straightforward. Nazareth had unleased Loud ‘N’ Proud that same year, and threw a mean punch with “Go Down Fighting,” but even that uppercut retained a bluesy-ness that didn’t translate into the sheer pandemonium of “Black Diamond.” King Crimson’s Red had its own terrifying aspects, but more in the Robert Heinlein, sci-fi vein.

So, to answer your question Mark (pun intended), I love this album.

I can’t imagine growing up without this music, and I truly feel sorry for those who weren’t there the first time ’round.

The heaviest and best KISS album is called KISS. You wanted the best…

-TW

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Gorillaz – Plastic Beach review

July 7th, 2010 No Comments

Gorillaz-Plastic Beach album cover

Gorillaz – Plastic Beach

Blur lead singer Damon Albarn and cartoonist Jamie Hewlett returned with their third release under the Gorillaz banner, Plastic Beach, just a few months ago.  While this very modern mash-up of staggering visual imagery, hip-hop wordplay, Swedish electro-pop, chamber orchestration, and traditional Syrian/Arabic music might not seem, at first thought, to be of much interest to the classic rock followers that frequent this site, there are some very notable contributions from veteran rockers that might cause our dear fans to pay attention.

So how does the collaboration between a Brit pop vocalist and the artist responsible for creating the character Tank Girl constitute a band?  Well, first you must understand that Gorillaz is a “virtual band,” meaning that the band members appearing in all promotional materials are cartoon characters drawn by Hewlett.  Hewlett is also responsible for all visual aspects of Gorillaz, from the stage design to the creation of the 8-foot Plastic Beach “miniature” used in the filming of the album’s narrative.  Hewlett and Albarn work together to generate the storyline visited over the course of their releases and Albarn serves as a musical director when he’s not also singing, playing guitar, or programming keyboards.  The cast of contributing musicians has varied widely on all Gorillaz releases, with past performers including Debbie Harry and Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth of Talking Heads and Tom Tom Club fame.  With Plastic Beach, Gorillaz went all out when bringing musicians of disparate backgrounds together.  The record features American hip-hop legends Snoop Dogg, De La Soul and Mos Def, Super Furry Animals’ lead singer Gruff Rhys, rock and roll chameleon Lou Reed, R& B veteran Bobby Womack, the first collaboration in decades from former Clash members Mick Jones and Paul Simonon, and, most shockingly, the leader of the long lasting British punk group The Fall, Mark E. Smith.

Plastic Beach is a concept record discussing consumer culture and its unavoidable production of waste materials.  The concept is visited as the cartoon Gorillaz are cast ashore on an island consisting of all the junk drifting through the world’s oceans, now washed clean, piled high, and painted pink.  We’re handed a multimedia project with high profile musicians, true, but does the CD deliver the goods?  My vote is that the three years spent developing and recording Plastic Beach have yielded one of the most entertaining and thought provoking releases of 2010, with layer upon layer of complexity that continue to reveal the project’s scope with each repeated listen.  Goods delivered!

From the opening cries of seagulls atop a moving performance from the U.K.’s Sinfonia ViVA and leading into Snoop Dogg’s turn at the mic with backing from Chicago’s Hypnotic Brass Ensemble on “Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach,” we know that we need to settle back for a tale being told.  The backing track on the record’s first single, “Stylo,” comes across as some kind of gloomy disco a la Wax Trax Records circa 1987 before Mos Def brings a hauntingly treated rhyme when Albarn and Womack aren’t trading lines.  Womack’s voice is especially impressive as it cuts straight through the fog.

The song “Superfast Jelly fish” is a genius stab at a pop tune with De La Soul’s rhyme about fast food made from squiggly aquatic creatures, a fortified drum track from Gabriel Wallace and a sugar-coated chorus sung by Rhys.  Sampled sperm whales are used to further dislocate our ear drums.  This then makes way for a beautifully shimmering collaboration between Albarn, Swedish pop group Little Dragon and guitarist Simon Tong (best known for his time in the UK’s hallucinatory band The Verve) on “Empire Ants.”

“Where’s North from ‘ere?,” mumbles Mark E. Smith at the opening of “Glitter Freeze,” as synthesizers percolate around him.  His contribution is not extensive, but he’s perfect in his role as a mist-shrouded soothsayer from beyond.  Smith’s demonic laugh draws our attention away from the electronic sea creatures battling in the distance to a drum machine’s cadence.  One star turn leads to another as Lou Reed, to a simplistic piano and synthesizer line, tries to describe “Some Kind of Nature.”  Reed, who can sometimes sound more mechanical than the machines in his rhythm track, doesn’t disappoint in that respect.  He’s another excellent choice for Albarn and Hewlett as they searched for narrators of this post-apocalyptic, post-consumer sea shanty.

Two Albarn solo tracks follow Reed’s: “On Melancholy Hill” and “Broken.”  These serve as demonstrations of Albarn’s conceptual vision, providing lyrical content necessary to the tale before setting us up for the incredible “Sweepstakes.”  Mos Def, backed by an electro-reggae rhythm and multi-tracked, monotone rap that wouldn’t seem out of line on an MIA CD, slowly builds in intensity through the song’s five minutes.  Stealthily, the Hypnotic Brass Band and Gabriel Wallace creep into earshot before ducking back into the shadows.

The title track is saved for the Jones-Simonon reunion; one that proved so fruitful that the duo was asked to join the Gorillaz touring ensemble.  The song’s artificial voices, heavily processed guitars, and ultra-heavy bass throb make it the pinnacle of Plastic Beach.  To ease us down and out of the record, Albarn reunites with Little Dragon on the cut “To Binge” and a playful duet with their singer Yukimi Nagano before making way once more for Womack on “Cloud of Unknowing.”  This song, filled with sadness, hope, and love contains one of Womack’s most soulful and powerful deliveries of his career.  “Pirate Jet” finishes the disc on an up note and the comical sounds of horror movie organ, Jew’s harp and rolling ocean waves.

Plastic Beach certainly won’t be everyone’s cup of grog, but it has enough diversity to satisfy most people at least some of the time.  If you’re going to make the purchase, spend a few more of your hard earned doubloons and cast your spyglass for the Virgin/EMI Experience Edition, which includes slightly different, yet no less gorgeous cover art, a Bonus DVD of the making of the record (highly entertaining and revealing), and codes for exclusive access to all sorts of goodies on gorillaz.com.

- Mark Polzin

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Robin Trower – Twice Removed From Yesterday

June 8th, 2010 2 Comments

Robin Trower-Twice Removed From Yesterday CD cover

Robin Trower‘s debut solo album, Twice Removed From Yesterday, has finally been reissued on compact disc courtesy of IconoClassic Records. I’ve sung the praises of Trower and Twice Removed before, and am happy to have a digital backup to my well-worn vinyl copy of this underrated album. And, the CD is stacked with a bonus track, “Take A Fast Train.”

Twice Removed is moody, melodic and a revelation to those who had heard Trower only in his more supportive role as Procol Harum‘s guitarist. In Procol, Trower had the chance to spread his six-string wings on tracks such as “Whiskey Train,” but the band’s biggest successes relied on Matthew Fisher‘s organ stylings (“Whiter Shade Of Pale”) and lush arrangements (“A Salty Dog”). Eventually, Trower’s desire to merge the blues with rock was too much to deny and he struck out on his own, not knowing if he would ever be part of another recording. But, as the CD liners quote Trower, “Procol Harum were a keyboard band, and musically I was going off in a different direction. I had to find my own way to pursue that, and so I decided to form my own band.”

With little more than faith and the help of bassist/vocalist James Dewar and drummer Reg Isidore, the trio went to work recording a set of original material along with a stomping version of B.B. King’s “Rock Me Baby.” The songwriting – a partnership primarily of Dewar and Trower – showcased Trower’s controlled fire across some of the strongest material of the guitarist’s career. The brooding opener, “Can’t Wait Much Longer,” reunited Trower with Procol-mate Matthew Fisher (who also produced the original recording). For me, it is Trower at his best. One of the coolest parts about Trower’s playing is his ability to create “circular-sounding” riffs from a handful of notes. Unlike Tony Iommi, who would bludgeon and trample listeners with brontosaurus-like chords, Trower would paint mysterious musical pictures drenched in feedback and heavy in atmosphere. The compositions are not complex, but they drip with the pure emotion of the blues and imbue a sparkle to rock.

Dewar on the mike was the perfect foil for Trower’s potent compositions. His bluesy-soaked voice, often compared to Paul Rodgers, gives tracks like “Can’t Wait..,” “Hannah” and “Daydream” a gritty glimmer that’s hard to imagine bettering. And Isidore’s drumming is heavy yet smooth as quicksilver.

Success would follow Trower and Twice Removed, when Bridge Of Sighs was released a year later, but his first solo album remains the benchmark for Trower and the many hopefuls looking to meld blues and rock.

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Pretenders – Pretenders

June 7th, 2010 No Comments

Pretenders-Pretenders album cover

Pretenders – Pretenders

It’s 1980 and the world is still trying to figure out what to make of the recent punk explosion.  The rebellion against the arty pretensions and overblown drama that passed for rock & roll had been deconstructed and stripped to the barest elements.  Three chords, two minutes, and voices displaying raw emotion rather than vocal gymnastics were stealthily becoming the norm once again.  Ohio native Chrissie Hynde had left the stale confines of the U.S. some seven years earlier at age 22 to write about, work for, and jam with London’s punks.  Her taste in music and her songwriting abilities were now honed to where she was comfortable leading her own band.  This is the setting for one of the finest rock records ever recorded, the self-titled debut of Pretenders.  Although I haven’t owned this release for the first 30 years of its existence, I’ve recently acquired the Rhino/Audio Fidelity 24 K + Gold CD version and felt compelled to commit the emotions that I experienced upon listening to this jewel to words.

The stark cover to Pretenders, featuring the musicians dressed in only black, red, and white against a white backdrop, let us know that this is a band composed of four people with four very different personalities and centered on the red leather-jacketed and pouting Hyndes.  She stands between a dangerously dark Pete Farndon and a grinning, suited Martin Chambers with a playfully mysterious James Honeyman-Scott peering over the rim of his black sunglasses and also over Chambers’ shoulder.  The image, photographed by Chalkie Davies, seems to have captured the souls of the foursome with a device more crystal ball than camera.

Hynde is the dominant songwriter as well as the singer and rhythm guitarist.  Her leadership of the band is clearly established early on.  But Pretenders is a record made by a band, not a group of assembled musicians under complete direction of Hynde as Pretenders would later become.  With the opening attack of “Precious” and Honeyman-Scott’s buzzsaw guitar, we’re led to believe that this is a punk record.  But as Hynde steps to the mic, spewing lines about “shitting bricks” and telling us that she’s too precious and had to fuck off, unlike Howard the Duck and Mr. Stress who are trapped in a world they never made, we understand that the attitude may be “punk” but there’s a woman writing and singing these words, not a cartoon character.  Farndon’s bass and Chambers’ drums are clear and sturdy (sounding especially great on the Gold Disc version) while Honeyman-Scott is divebombing us with siren sounds and tasty little licks.  It’s as perfect as a song could get amid the tumult of rotting economies on both sides of the Atlantic.

Skipping through the tracks, we find one of many buried treasures in “Up The Neck.”  Here we’re treated to some of Hynde’s best poetry in a lyric detailing a violently erotic scene and a realization that this love affair may be the singer’s undoing.  But love it is and what may be will be.  Honeyman-Scott employs a perfect, chiming sound as a prelude to some impressive quintuplet pull-offs.  We also hear an early example of Hynde’s trademark fading vibrato vocals.  As good as the performances are on this cut, what follows is perhaps the best song ever conceived by this band – “Tattooed Love Boys.”  Weighing in at seconds shy of three minutes, there are more ideas flowing through than on some bands’ entire albums.  While Hynde’s words are filled with brilliant double entendre that still manage to keep the exact meaning obscured, the true star is Honeyman-Scott.  Backed by a locomotive rhythm from Chambers and Farndon, chattering maracas, and punked-up rhythm guitars, the lead breaks tackled by Honeyman-Scott grab from his bag of tricks at a dizzying pace.  His pick is scraping and the strings and neck are bending as he alternates with rockabilly barre chords.  The group is unbelievably tight while maintaining a balance between the heavy and the delicate.  The early MTV video was what convinced this little metal-head to pay closer attention to Pretenders, as Honeyman-Scott’s powers simply could not be denied.

One song that I’d nearly forgotten about is the instrumental “Space Invader,” composed by Farndon and Honeyman-Scott.  Farndon’s bass line does a great job at approximating the chugging sound of the “music” from the very influential video game, but the song itself is not all that spectacular.  It is, however, a nice example of the chemistry between the two ill-fated songwriters.

There is a trio of songs tacked on to Pretenders that saw release well before the record was issued.  All three are remarkable in their own way.  The Nick Lowe-produced cover of the Kinks’ classic “Stop Your Sobbing,” sounds very different from the other tracks on the album, which are produced by Chris Thomas.  Lowe’s approach has a more distant, echo effect that draws parallels between both the original version of the song and Motown girl groups.  It’s one more reason to love Nick Lowe, but the song doesn’t do much to give an identity to the group.  “Kid,” by comparison, contains all the elements that we typically recognize as being part of the Pretenders’ sound.  Honeyman-Scott takes a rockabilly stance for the most part, but he’s also very inventive with the lines he chooses to bridge the changes of the piece.  Hynde’s voices are as sweet and seductive as she’s ever sung, choked with sadness and employing her vibrato with completely charming results.  And speaking of charm, the super smash “Brass In Pocket” remains unlike any song recorded before or since.  I can remember way back to my teenage years and just how much impact the song had on girls that I went to school with.  It was huge!  There are so many ideas that contribute to the success of the song: the falsetto voices of the guys on the “make you notice” and “special” refrains, Honeyman-Scott’s irresistible and simple guitar lines, the bass way up high in the mix, and of course Hynde’s sexy and pleading vocals.  These three tunes are what built the foundation for Hynde’s career in the decades to follow and they remain fresh to this day.

There are longer, lesser known, more experimental songs on Pretenders as well, chief among them “Lovers Of Today.”  The pace is much slower on this ode to society’s expectations that young people’s love affairs are doomed.  The music forms an aural spotlight for Hynde before and after making way for yet another genius solo from Honeyman-Scott.  The lyrics are some of the most gentle crafted by Hynde and really point to the direction she would head in the wake of the tragic deaths of Farndon and Honeyman-Scott.

Everyone that was into music in any way in 1980 has a visceral reaction to Pretenders. In fact, I’d lay money on the fact that the emotions you experienced upon first encountering this band are rolling through your minds at this moment, whether you’re listening to the tracks right now or not.  The band was that different, that exciting, and that special.  The magic captured on their first release was never matched by anything they’d produced since, and, with very few exceptions, matched by any other artists on their debut record.  In 1980, few could imagine that 25 years into this rock-n-roll thing a band could come along and shake things up like Pretenders did.  I keep looking to other new artists to see if they may have what it takes to leave a similar legacy.

- Mark Polzin

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Sigur Ros ( ) – A case for Classic Rock?

June 3rd, 2010 2 Comments

SIgur Ros ( ) album cover

Sigur Ros – ( )

What do we make of a recording that has no title, no album credits, no song titles, and minimal cover art?  This is the product delivered to American audiences by the Icelandic post-rock quartet Sigur Ros in October 2002, and which is commonly known as ( ), a title taken from the cut-out section of the CD’s plastic jacket, which resembles parentheses.  This album first caught my attention upon its release due to the pastoral beauty of the untitled 4th track (also referred to as “Njósnavélin”) and has been on my “must purchase” list ever since.  If you’re like me, your “must purchase” list contains far too many items to acquire in a human lifetime, but ( ) has haunted me until I picked it up earlier this month.  The purchase did little to dispel the ghostly nag within my brain and has instead created more intrigue.  While ( ) is not considered a classic rock album by most listeners, and can hardly be considered “rock” most of the time, it points a direction toward the future of music and draws from elements presented by artists such as Brian Eno, Radiohead, and early Genesis.

With no information to guide you through your first listen to ( ), you have no choice but to immerse yourself in the sounds and discern your own meaning.  Now, I can’t speak Icelandic and wouldn’t know if someone was speaking the language let alone singing it.  It turns out that I don’t really need that skill anyway.  What I thought were lyrics in an established foreign language with which I had no familiarity was, instead, an entirely created language named “Hopelandic,” by the band’s singer and guitarist, Jonsi Birgisson.  ( ) is not the first Sigur Ros release to feature “Hopelandic”, but it is the first to capitalize on the use of syllables in combination with the vagaries of the album concept to produce a record that’s meaning is left completely up to the listener and for which meaning will vary from fan to fan.  On top of that, Jonsi’s delivery incorporates a high falsetto that occasionally peaks in squeaks.  He does, however, have his fall back “words,” especially the syllable combination “ee-sigh-oh,” that are intended to produce some commonality in order to differentiate from gibberish.

I know that I’ve shaken at least half of my readers at this point.  That’s cool.  This release is definitely not every cat’s meow.  But have no fear; I’ll get back to the ROCK later.  And for those of you still with me, you’re either wondering if I’ve gone off the deep end or else you’re intrigued by this mysterious document called ( ).  Well, my toes may be hanging over the edge of the pool, but there’s plenty of substance on this record to attract more than me alone.  Please allow me to explain.

Track 1, also known as “Vaka,” begins with a simple, repeated piano chord progression supplied by keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson and is joined shortly thereafter by Jonsi’s echoing choral voice.  A string section is added to the mix as Jonsi dispenses with the echo and presents full voice syllables before ramping up to his trademark falsetto.  Although the tunes build in complexity over the course of the record, “Vaka” sets the tone and alerts us to the fact that ( ) intends to be more of a thought guide than a collection of songs.  Six and a half minutes float by like clouds hanging overhead at daybreak.

The first half of the album’s eight cuts are generally more calm than the remainder, but the aforementioned track 4, or “Njósnavélin” if you prefer, starts to hint that Sigur Ros was once a rock band.  Bass and drums courtesy of Georg Holm and Orri Pall Dyrason respectively are more prominent, but the pace remains slow and the music ethereal.  The term “post-rock,” used to describe music that involves traditional rock instrumentation but steers clear of the conventions of the blues, jazz, and country backbones of rock music, is epitomized by the sounds on track 4.  We’ve heard this approach, with differing effect, from Chicago’s Tortoise and the disparate King Crimson-affiliated projects, but Sigur Ros take the course more commonly pursued by classical composers.  However, such composers also rely on conventions that are avoided by this band.  Just as Iceland remains its own microcosm, with its unique volcanoes, geysers, glaciers, language, and lifestyles, Sigur Ros is as different from anything else found in popular music.  Dyrason’s orchestral beats and Jonsi’s chiming reverb, enhanced by the use of a cello bow pulled across the strings, blend with the otherworldly keyboards and French horns that make up the guts of the piece.  Jonsi’s presentation is truly beautiful as he hangs with his voice’s middle register.  The song is broken at various intervals by majestic organ, odd voice samples, and tinkling music box electric piano elements.  Eventually all sounds drop out of the mix and we’re left with Jonsi’s pleading “Hopelandic” as a prelude to a full 30 seconds of silence.

Track 5, or “Alafoss,” is dark as a cave and saturated by a sense of menace, dread, and sorrow.  Dyrason keeps time as the minutes crawl by, but Jonsi sounds as if he’ll burst into tears at any moment.  The music relies on more of the band’s devices than on the use of strings or horns as found elsewhere.  Nearly 10 minutes of gloom will easily have you recalling memories that either should be faced before you can proceed with your life or that will drain your soul if dwelt upon unduly.  The bass and organ draw from something that may have been left on the machine during a Pink Floyd session, circa 1971.  Call this “rock” if you will, but it feels more like something summoned from an unholy dimension.

Track 7 and 8 (“Dauðalagið” and “Popplagið”) are the two longest pieces on the disc, both topping out over 10 minutes in length.  On seven, the band is again toying with rock music, and on a collection from any other group, might be considered to be the experimental gloom ballad that offsets more traditional rock fare.  On this record, it is the embodiment of angst and pent anger which Jonsi channels through a foghorn effect created by his guitar and the cello bow.  His voice is more the wail of a dying Norseman, rising to cacophony and buoyed by thundering drums and crashing cymbals.  The bass tones maintain the song’s ebony chord changes and never veer off course.  Track eight, by contrast, is the noise of a fallen spirit soaring beyond the material world.  Jonsi’s reprise of “eee-sigh-oh” and his gently plucked electric guitar offer moments of grounding, but the reverb and echo soon spill over into a slowly strangled solo and battering percussion before returning periodically and triumphantly.  The darkness this time reinforces where previously it crushed the listener.  It’s a sort of heroic tale and easily the most “rock” of anything found on ( ).

If the heavy metal band Sleep could be considered rock music, if Tiny Tim could be considered pop music, and if Frank Zappa’s orchestral pieces could be found in the rock bins, this record can also be considered a rock album and it’s absolutely classic in its scope and accomplishments.  And just like all of those artists will have people either hate them or love them, Sigur Ros draws its own line in the sand and dares us to cross.  If you decide to take the journey, you’ll experience an album that’s a modern day masterpiece and which may employ techniques that seem commonplace decades down the road.  For these reasons, fans of Classic Rock ought to at least make an attempt to broaden their placid horizons and let ( ) guide their thoughts for a time.  I rest my case.  “Ee-sigh-oh.”

- Mark Polzin

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