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These pages are updated regularly and this is the section where you can find in-depth reviews of the latest albums, many before they are even released. All reviews by Nick Peters, unless specified.
Guest contribution from Ben Tooke
Everyone loves Gwen Stefani. With her big sparkly eyes and baby doll pout, Gwen’s the girl that had us all weeping to ‘Don’t Speak’ and then bumping and grinding to the ragga beats of ‘Hella Good’. She’s part innocent blonde and part street-cool rude girl and is totally irresistible. So what does the album that everyone’s been waiting for, the album that’s 100% Gwen Stefani, sound like?
Well it’s hard to know exactly what to make of the eclectic mixture of sounds and styles residing on Love. Angel. Music. Baby. Unlike the heavy ska flavour of No Doubt this is decisively a pop album. Stefani’s brought all the current hip-hop elite in: Andre 3000, Dr Dre, The Neptunes and ahem, Eve. The much sought after Linda Perry even volunteered her golden touch. Though it doesn’t jump up and bitch-slap you into submission, it does win you over after a few listens. The first single release ‘What You Waiting For’ is the strongest offering with its commanding rock-pop beats, though the reggae tinged ‘Rich Girl’ isn’t far behind on the hit single stakes. However, some of the best tracks are a little experimental. The bitchin’ ‘Hollaback Girl’ is delivered in the style of a cheerleader chant in which Gwen gets to say the word ‘shit’ a lot of times. ‘Bubble Pop Electric’ sounds exactly like its title and is a fast synth-pop tale of teenage sex at the drive-in. It sounds silly with Gwen cooing ‘Uh-O in the back seat’, but it actually works.
Elsewhere things calm down a little, ‘Luxurious’ has a slow vibe and would be more at home on an Ashanti album, whereas ‘Cool’ is reminiscent of the mellower tracks from ‘Rock Steady’. Gwen even gets a bit soppy – “after all the obstacles. It’s good to see you now with someone else” - but sounds vulnerable and sincere enough to pull it off.
Towards the latter end it all turns 80’s pop on songs like ‘Crash’ and ‘Serious’. Unfortunately, these tracks aren’t up to the challenge of a revamp. There is no innovation or originality in the average pop beats to make them anything special. This part of the album is far too sugar coated and safe -a bit like an early Kylie B-side- and doesn’t do justice to more creative side of the album.
Then there’s the collaboration with Andre 3000, ‘Long Way To Go’. I was hoping this duet was going to be outstanding, but instead it borders on unpleasant listening. The unimaginative anti-racism lyrics ‘Beauty is beauty, whether it’s black or white’ are spoken over what sounds like video game music. Add a few obvious samples from the ‘I have a dream’ speech, you have the absolute low point of ‘Love. Music. Angel. Baby’.
Despite all the big name contributors it’s Stefani’s charismatic persona that pulls the album up above average; lending certain tracks more appeal than they probably deserve. She’s just so damn likable, and pours her teasing Californian vocals into every track. This album fires in so many different directions that it may have turned out a mess, but somehow it’s just able to find a coherency in Gwen Stefani world. It’s a brightly coloured and wondrous land, filled with dancing Harajuku girls and giant ticking clocks. It might not be perfect, but it’s definitely worth a visit. (6/10)
Guest contribution from Ben Tooke
Rancid fans amongst you may be aware of singer Lars Fredericksen’s side project, The Bastards. Viking follows the band’s self titled debut release in 2001 which was a solid punk rock album. If not a little samey, it was an album of songs to jump around to. Viking takes the same approach but has a darker edge, and more variation among the 16 tracks.
The raw energy and fast paced shouting are both still present at the forefront. Skins, Punx and Drunx is exploding with big riffs and speed guitar, made all the more gnarly by Lars’s dirty vocal style. Tracks like 1% and Little Rude Girl stand out, showing what catchy hooks the band are capable of amidst the ruckus, ensuring you are singing along by the end of the track. There’s also a good cover of Marie Marie originally by The Blasters with its nostalgic 50’s feel.
Viking also sees the band exploring a wider range of style and tempo. There are a few slower songs on the album such as the smooth textured The Viking with Lars’s spoken word vocals scrawled over keyboards and violin. Similarly paced is Mainlining Murder; an angst track which thuds along malevolently. This style contrasts well with the rest of the album and by breaking up the fast pace it avoids sounding monotonous and evokes a variation of sentiments and moods.
However, the album sleeve presents a worrying indication as to the lyrical content of the music. We have guns, motorbikes and pages of naked Jordenesque models. By the third track Fight our fears that Lars may be having some kind of midlife crises of masculinity are confirmed, shouting ‘All I wanna do is fight!’. Lars also informs us ‘I don’t go anywhere without my switchblade, I don’t go anywhere without my gun’. Oh, please.
The genius lyrics don’t stop at mindless violence though, on My Life to Live Lars lists the names of the many whores he’s fucked in a manner similar to that of Sean Paul. I desperately listen out for some trace of irony, for something that will assure me Lars isn’t desperate to be hailed as a double ‘ard gangster punk, but unfortunately my hopes are crushed as I cringe at the shameful Streetwise Professor.
Now don’t think I’m foolishly expecting inspired poetry from an old school punkster like Lars, as punk music is all about real life grit, but much of this does make you either wince or laugh out loud as Lars bangs on about his gangster pimp image. It’s a pity as the lyrics take the edge off what is otherwise a blinding album.
Lars and The Bastards are never going to have commercial success approaching that of Rancid, or even Tim Armstrong’s solo project The Transplants, but if you manage to desensitise yourself to the cringe worthy lyrics then Viking is as impressive as most Rancid material. There isn’t actually a bad song on the album as Lars and the boys combine some great song writing with old school punk attitude. It’s just a shame Lars couldn’t come up with some lyrics worthy of the music. (6/10)
Round up of latest Thrash, Death and Black Metal releases
Now there is no denying that all of the above genres can be either thrillingly intense or just laughably childish, with a middle ground rarely touched. Trash Metal – mindless fret-masturbation or complex musical art? Death Metal – a sinister alternative to heavy metal or just a bunch of idiots trying to be scary? Black Metal – glorious symphonic metal or a bunch of right-wing wankers? The dark side to metal has come forth in terrifyingly twisted ways thanks to extreme metal, ranging from those Norwegian Black Metallers burning Churches to the ground to the brutal and bloody imagery that can be found in Slayers classic albums. Though what can these new releases add to the scenes?
Kreator – ‘Enemy Of God’ (SPV)
Kreator have been laying waste to ears with blisteringly fast drums and speedy guitar riffs since 1984. An immensely influential German thrash band, these guys have arguably given as much to the scene as Slayer, it’s just that they have been overlooked a bit more as the years have gone by. So ‘Enemy Of God’ is not quite the return to form that has been promised, but it is a political furious stampede. ‘Impossible Brutality’ roars off at breakneck speed as it questions just how desensitised people are becoming to the shocking images we see on the television whilst ‘World Anarchy’ provides a superb shot of turbo-thrash adrenaline. Elsewhere, the shock of September 11th continues to reverberate around in ‘Enemy Of God’, which is possibly the finest thing Kreator have come up with in some time. ‘Voices Of The Dead’ is a superb change of pace, with it’s concession to atmospherics, but as the album continues, the tracks begin to blur and you wish that their was more battering your ears than just the increasingly standard thrash metal. Kreator continue to command much respect, but they must ensure they don’t become a parody of themselves. (5/10)
Tristania – ‘Ashes’ (SPV)
Following the surprisingly huge Europe-wide success of Nightwish and their mix of death metal and operatic goth, there is no reason why Tristania cannot make in-roads into the mainstream with their fourth album. Fronted by two black-clad miserable looking Norwegians frights and a black-clad miserable looking Norwegian woman, Tristania excel in mixing affecting symphonic rock, black metal, death metal and goth. Now, that isn’t me just throwing names around either, as they really do chuck in all the crucial elements from these doom-ridden genres. ‘The Wretched’ could be Sisters Of Mercy at times, with its spooky combination of male and female vocal and lush violins, but ‘Libre’ leans towards a much harsher sound, with growled vocals layered over strident but brooding guitar. At times it can be a little too gloomy and you think a cloud of dry ice might start pumping from the speakers at any moment, but generally this is mood-music for Goths that don’t mind having their beloved traditional sounds influenced by scary death metal. Forget Evanescence and Nightwish, this is where the talent is. (7/10)
Dissection – ‘Mahi Kali’ (RSK)
Founder Jon Nodtveidt hasn’t done much apart from play acoustic guitar recently. That’s because he’s spend the last eight years in jail for his part in the murder of a homosexual man. The guy is clearly a prick, but unfortunately his respected outfit Dissection aren’t that bad. Back with a completely revamped band, Nodtveidt has made sure this new single is rush-released in an attempt to get his career back on track. Both tracks are a mix of majestic death metal and sinister black metal, at times sounding powerful and purposeful. It might not have the bombast or the heap of ideas that many of their contemporaries are using, but it’s a decent return that is bound to please their army of, perhaps misguided, worshippers. (4/10)
Some might say that naming your band Class of Zero is asking for trouble. Indeed, it must be said that this group of nu-metallers don’t exactly make the classiest music, this being standard, feisty and angsty metal, much like Linkin Park without the electronics. Though if you stick with it and aren’t too repelled by the initial feeling that you’ve heard this record about a million times before from other bands, there is some reward.
Their debut album is a short, sharp burst of driving melodies and crunching guitars, that at times impresses with it’s pummelling brute force and jumpy rhythms. Though, whilst at times these strengths are used to make enjoyable, harmless whinge-rock like ‘By The Book’ and ‘Buried’, in other places it can be hard going. “Why don’t people like me/ because I’m a prick, a pig and a slob/ Just a mean son of a bitch” rages singer Ryan on ‘S.O.B’. He’s a very angry man and his credit notes even begin with the opening “unfortunately I feel that there are more people I want to tell to fuck off than to thank”. Now I’m all for angry rock, but with this particular bunch the constant expressions of self-examination and anger begin to grate after while, much like the aforementioned Linkin Park.
With time they might find more of a unique personalisation to their music, rather than sounding like one of the clones of nu-metallers that are routinely pumped out to us each and every month. Until then, it’s more of the same. (4/10)
Rock singles round up
TAT – ‘Pessimist: Live from Another Wasted Summer’ (Ex Records)
You may have seen this energetic female-fronted band on a documentary filmed for the Extreme Sports Channel, which has been aired recently. If not, then perhaps you caught them in various support slots around London’s key rock venues. Having grown up on a diet of all the biggest punk bands, from Rancid to Sex Pistols, 19-year-old Tatania Demaria clearly lives and breathes the three-chord music mantra. Taking the unusual step of releasing a live track as the lead on their new single, with two others taped at the Reading Festival, TAT continue to show they intend to storm the consciousness of the punk-rock community and then stay there. These three tracks are acerbic blasts of thrashy, occasionally ska-tinged punk, given considerably more weight by Tatania’s powerful vocal. Most notable is ‘Pessimist’, which boasts harsh lyrics like “When you need me most/ I’ll be pissed off my face or stoned/ And I’ll be loving it”. Charming! (6/10)
MENDEED – ‘Ignite The Flames’ (Rising Records)
If they didn’t look like such cuddly indie boys on the record sleeves, you would imagine this to be the product of some fearsome looking brutes. Mendeed are responsible for unholy sounding thrash metal that frequently changes pace without warning. Violent and full of anguish, the screamed vocals are bloody and raw, flicking between painful screams and brutal growls. A bit likes Slayer taking on Iron Maiden. One can only imagine the carnage their live shows must bring. (5/10)
RSJ – ‘Blueprint For A Brighter Future EP’ (Hangmans Joke Recordings)
When people say ‘heavy’, this is the sort of brutality that they should be talking about. Almost psychotic in intensity, vocalist Dan C rages with an aggression that is quite astonishing. Quite what he is hollering about is anyone’s guess, but it sounds pretty frightening. Accompanied by thundering drums, rampaging riffs and a bass slung so slow that it could cause a minor earthquake; this amounts to quite a powerful proposition. Sounding pissed-off and like they simply must get all their anger out there, RSJ are ones to watch. If you dare. (7/10)
The Wildhearts were always a people’s band. Famously overcoming their demons to rise from the ashes, they are a classic example of the underdog fighting back from the brink of nothingness to reclaim a spot in rock and roll’s consciousness. Seemingly dead and buried when drug problems, egos and a lack of motivation threatened to permanently bury the success they achieved on the back of the seminal ‘Earth VS The Wildhearts’ album, the band eventually regrouped and toured their butts off, over and over, reminding people who they were and why they need to still exist. Crucially they had an arsenal of new powerful tunes that contained their trademark catchy melodies and thrashy heaviness. Next thing you know, they are shagging the charts again and supporting The Darkness in America. The Wildhearts struck back, alright.
The band’s spiritual home was always onstage and without Ginger thrashing around his dreadlocks and raising a glass to the underworld, rock would be a lonelier scene. They feel like one of us, playing greasy anthems that sound like The Beatles for heavy rockers. So what better than to finally release an album where you can listen to the band playing at various locations around the UK, from Northampton to Sheffield and beyond.
Live albums are often a bit shit, but this effort captures the essential parts of what makes The Wildhearts so enthralling live. The passion and the tunes. All the favourites are here, the jazz-metal craziness of ‘My Baby Is A Headfuck’, the thunderous riffage of ‘Suckerpunch’ and the gorgeously melodic ‘Jonesing For Jones’. ‘I Wanna Go Where The People Go’ is still devastating whilst ‘Turning American’ is an unexpected revisit to their more daring early days. Yet the newer material is as invigorating and fresh as all the seminal classics (and just ask Embrace the importance of the comeback tune). ‘Top Of The World’ is full of energy and enthusiasm and ‘Vanilla Radio’ keeps alive their sense of mischief. Also to prove that the band like nothing more than a pint or ten at the end of the day, they include a storming cover of the Cheers theme tune.
It’s been a long and uncertain haul for The Wildhearts. They’ve seen a lot come and go, but some things remain the same - the love for their music and their fans, and as live albums go, this is a splendid little testament to that and a treat for fans who saw their recent tour. (6/10)
Very occasionally a rock band comes along that amalgamates different styles in the genre well enough to creates something completely sublime. Evidence shows these challengers often go on to make a big difference in the scheme of rock; look at Faith No More, Rage Against The Machine and Sepultura, all contemporary rock acts that dared to do something different and eventually made a changed the shape of things to come. For good or worse.
Now no-one is saying that Lamb Quartet have yet developed the muscle to become the force that any of those bands were, but it is clear from this cracker of a debut album that they have some serious potential. Imagine the funk-grooves of vintage Red Hot Chilli Peppers with Faith No More’s quirkiness and System Of A Down’s reckless attitude firing on all cylinders. Then consider how they could take these influences and turn them into something that is very much personalised and different from the mindless majority of rock bores doing the rounds. It makes something bloody good fun to listen to, I promise you.
Their grasp on dynamics is masterful. The jazz-grooves of ‘Ersa’ are perfect, with minimal guitar and drum action ensuring a blissful, stoned like vibe. Vocalist Ben whispers about an intriguing night at a party, like he is a casual, chilling observer, watching the madness unfold before him. You want to be there, smoking and drinking beer with him. Then there is ‘I’ve Got A Lot Of Explaining To Do’, a hyperactive burst of bouncy rhythm and uncontrollable enthusiasm. As if chill-out guitar licks and punk attitude wasn’t enough, then ‘Bully Song’ is a bullet through the head with death metal screams, stabbing guitars and enough anger to scare all their neighbours out of the ‘hood. ‘Not You Again’ shifts and swivels marvellously in different directions, accumulating in a thrashy workout and ‘Perv’ delights in it’s precocity.
So if you can keep up, ‘Lamb Quartet’ is unpredictable, challenging, fun and something to believe in. Look to the future with them. It could be a bumpy ride. (8/10)
When a band gives their new album the same title as that of their band, then alarm bells usually ring. Is that the best they can do? They couldn’t come up with anything more imaginative then that? Yet, in this case The Libertines couldn’t have done anything more appropriate. Their second album is almost exclusively about the band and all the baggage that they carry, mostly Pete Docherty’s. What is it about if not about The Libertines?
Pete’s battle with heroin has been documented widely now, from fan websites right through to the centre pages of The Sun. That’s because nothing is more tragic, yet glamorous, than a young talent tossing his life away by jabbing nasty shit into his arm. Pete has now been kicked out of the band for the time being, but this album will effortlessly cruise to number one on the back of a storming debut album called ‘Up The Bracket’ and the personal traumas that the band have been dealing with. It’s a total rock tragedy; but success in the face of adversity, and so bittersweet. We pity The Libertines and remain fascinated by them.
The bad news, then. ‘The Libertines’ isn’t as good as we were hoping, or has been suggested by the awesome single ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’. At times this album sounds like a half-arsed affair, which was either deliberate or just reflective of the tired and fragile mental state of the band members. Though, surely, it was always destined to be a bit haphazard when written under such circumstances?
It has periods of total genius. ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ sees Pete and Carl trading complaints at each others attitudes, and amounts to being a affecting love song between two brothers. Similar is ‘What Ever Happened To The Likely Lads’, which centres on the same themes; shattered dreams, hope and frustration. It concludes romantically with “What ever happened to the likely lads, what became of the dreams they had?” It’s melodic, filled with hooks and tells a harrowing tale which just doesn’t get boring. Elsewhere, ‘The Ha Ha Wall’ begins with a brief but gorgeous solo and ‘Arbeit Mach Frei’ is one of their punky, gritty, shouty bursts of politically charged enthusiasm. But the outstanding moment has to be ‘Music When The Lights Go Out’, a reflective, sad, English lament .
As usual, they mix and match styles from reggae to folk to punk with astonishing ease and it sounds effortlessly natural. Yet there is a significant portion of the album which sounds disjointed and sloppy. ‘Don’t Be Shy’ is irritating and drunken, with Carl wailing “Don’t Be Shy” incessantly and incoherently. Then there is ‘What Katie Did’ and ‘Tomblands’ which are just plain, average and unmemorable. At times they try and use their English charm to disguise the fact that some of these songs sounds unfinished and lazy, but it just doesn’t disguise the fact that some of this sounds rushed.
It might be easy to forgive the Libertines for not being at their best because of the crack and the cocaine. You could get caught up in a misguided romanticism and just accept this for what it is or isn’t. But that would be letting the drugs win. The fact is that this is a below par effort from The Libertines which contains enough sparkle to remind us of what incredible peaks they are capable of. Just where will they go from here? (6/10)
The best of us like our music to be challenging and innovative, but Aconite Thrill prove themselves to be a little too adventurous on this irritating and demanding journey through just about every style of heavy metal. The band is from South Hertfordshire, the area that spawned those other metal mentalists SiKTh. Yet whereas, SiKTh have the pendulum swinging an accessible distance between a melody and some head-fuck psycho-babble hardcore rocking, these guys have meddled with awkward time signatures too many times.
Check out the fret-wanking and random beats of ‘Can’t Keep A Good Cop Down’, a track that tries to be far too clever. The spitfire string-plucking might be technically impressive, veering off up and down the fret-board like it’s an instrument possessed, but it sounds tuneless and incoherent. Singer Will Jeferee has his work cut out matching his awkward screams and yelps to the musical swamp on ‘It would have Been A’, and his emotional cries are lost in the quadmire of sound that spins and thrashes underneath.
This is cross-over metal that wants so hard to push down boundaries and prove it’s technical ability. Give me Dillinger Escape Plan or SiKTh if it’s clever-metal we’re going for. All it does is make you want to reach for the stop button. (3/10)
Remember those scary freaks from Norway who hit the headlines in the mid-nineties for running around in scary make-up whilst burning down churches and murdering each other? The black metal scene was notorious and thrilling, a genuinely dangerous and passionate underground genre, one that has produced some stunning music, some horribly shite music and some shocking criminal acts.
Koreisch sound like they should be from the same region, or at least mixing in the same circles as black metal maniac Burzum (well, his cronies perhaps as the man himself is in jail for stabbing a member of a rival band and has since turned to neo-nazism instead). But Koreisch actually hail from good old Sheffield, and this album was originally released in the late nineties. Remixed and rescued by Charger frontman Martin Ives, they now prepare to make their comeback and unleash all hell upon our ears.
With song titles like ‘1inchstabwound’ and ‘bleedlikechrist’ you can tell without listening to a single second that blasphemy, murder, suffering and violence is the order of the day. Indeed, this stuff is the nightmare soundtrack to anyone’s existence let alone a member of the religious right. Brooding, claustrophobic noise is what passes for their more ‘ambient’ moments, with grating, intense noise making you feel suffocated. These are peppered between some blisteringly brutal black metal, with drums and riffs thundering so fast it is almost impossible to keep up with. The vocals are painful screams where not a single voice is audible, but it sound like some unspeakable evil is being screamed about.
On the one hand it is staggeringly impressive because of its sheer extremity. On the other it’s just a childish unlistenable barrage of noise. So if you should ever feel inclined to go on a murderous rampage whilst burning anything holy in sight it’s a (10/10) and if you never do then we’ll settle for a (4/10) .
Charlie from Busted is a fan of Aereogramme, but before you go dismissing them out of hand, you obviously haven’t heard that Charlie Busted has great taste in music. He has an indie rock band and loves Sonic Youth, so Aereogramme MUST be cool.
Indeed, you will find that the man with the big eyebrows is spot on with his love for this intriguing Glasgow outfit. Having been crafting away since the late nineties, their philosophy is to constantly push at their own musical limitations and produce something challenging and different, and the range of their abilities is blatantly obvious throughout this six-track EP. For a start, there is a track called ‘The Unravelling’ that lasts over ten minutes and not once does it allow your attention to wander. It is brooding and dark, involving painful screams, orchestral melancholy, unexpected changes of pace and creepy atmospherics. It isn’t far off being a masterpiece.
Though if you are thinking you are dealing with Tool here, think again. Aereogramme are also capable of doing three minute nuggets of genius, like that of the sweeping and majestic ‘Inkwell’ where Craig B’s lush vocals melt over the guitar. Or there is the fragility of ‘I Don’t Need Your Love’ that leaves the more complex arrangements out and shows genuine emotion can still be wrought from the faithful guitar. Perhaps best of all is the pummelling ‘Lightening Strikes The Postman’ that crashes about with awesome power. It sounds epic and massive, though not at all pretentious. In fact, the whole CD captures a rare passion and conveys a variety of emotions with unusual affectiveness.
Next time you see Charlie Busted looking awkward in some pop magazine, take a look at what t-shirt he is wearing. It might just be the name of a bloody excellent diverse rock band. (8/10)
These days the word rock doesn’t have the sense of danger that it used to. Look at the nominees for this years Kerrang! Awards. The readers of the biggest rock publication in England have companioned two of the safest and most formulaic bands out there, The Darkness and Lost Prophets. I’m not denying they aren’t good at what they do, but where is the rebellion and excitement in today’s leading rock acts?
More than ever we must look to the Underground to find the dirty, explosive, true rock spirit. There are countless bands doing the business, although with little support or recognition, many of which have been championed on this very site. The latest is GU Medicine. One listen to their debut and you instantly think of the finer excesses of rock ‘n’ roll – sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. You think of beer and you hear meaty, filthy riffs that make every part of your body shake. They make you want to get on a motorbike and stick your fingers up at everyone you see. If Kyuss are great for stoner atmospherics and Queens Of The Stone Age for drug-induced haziness, then GU Medicine are the real party animals.
‘Red In The Obvious’ could be AC/DC with some extra distortion and weight behind them and ‘Gimme The Girl’ is Motorhead after having a few shots of Jack Daniel’s. The thrill of opener ‘The Right Time’ is a electrifying bolt of energy and deadly intent to cause chaos in every rock ‘n’ roll that will dare play them. The only real setback with GU Medicine is that, unlike say Queens Of The Stone Age, they don’t have any expected twists or challenges, just letting one song after another batter you with it’s speed, massive sound and brutal riffage, but that is hardly a terrible crime when the songs are as good as they are.
Come on, ditch the trendy labels and the nu-metal dreariness. Take a walk on the wild side with these boys. (7/10)
There is a lot to be depressed about in the world right now. Turn on the TV or scour through the newspapers and you are quickly reminded that innocents are dying all over the world, from terrorist attacks, from disease, from natural tragedies. Some of the biggest horrors of recent times have been the wars launched on two countries, infinitely weaker than our own, and been authorised by the President of the United States. Ah yes, a Republican is back in the White House and he is making something of a nuisance of himself throughout the world.
Some people have to get angry or worked up in order to produce their best work and every Ministry fan knows that Al Jourgensen can’t abide Republicans. Consequently he has found his voice again, and ‘Houses Of The Mole’ is really quite something of a battle cry. George W Bush is sampled to death here, his words chopped up to sound even more sinister than they usually do, that Texan drawl making you feel utter fury. There is talk of Iraqi people returning to their homelands to die, and direct samples of George Bush proclaiming that America is fighting a noble and justified war. Clearly, Jourgensen is not someone who considers this man fit to be leading the world’s most powerful nation, and as a result, this is a politically charged, protest record that is amongst Ministry’s most effective work yet.
Seeming to have fell in love with industrial rock once again, the nine tracks on here storm along like an aural riot, with super speed guitar and drums hammering along, peppered with those doom-ridden samples of the President. ‘Wrong’ is a damning criticism of the administration that is bitter and furious. ‘Worthless’ is a spiteful, unnerving piece that revels in the abuse and the destruction of the human spirit. ‘Waitin’’ brings a hopeless, defeatist aspect to the whole affair, with Jourgensen hollering “Still Waitin/ Wastin’ my time in the USA/ Waitin’ til I die”. There might initially be little in the way of sunbeams through the clouds on here, but deep within some of those twisted, but often truthful lyrics, is a fair amount of humour, most of it at Bush’s expense. Most of the tracks on here begin with a W for a start. Nurse! My Sides!
More than just an anti-war record, Ministry have made their return by turning their focus onto something that cannot go ignored. They do not mince their words, nor hide their intentions, and so we have a riveting record that will get you head banging with some intensity if nothing else. (6/10)
Reviewed by Rob Kinder
It's easy to think this 4 track long effort will be somewhat self-indulgent, given its name. On the other hand, introspection and angst seem to be all the rage with the kids right now, so maybe Kubrick are simply a product of the current populist taste. Certainly front-man Richard Gombault seems to be able to put his fingers on the pulse easily enough. He has glimpsed limited fame before, being the former singer of mid 90's band Midget. Midget certainly were the product of post-Britpop UK music. Back then melodic happy, jump-around pop rock songs were en vogue in many quarters, and Midgets were well formed and written. Midget did ok for themselves due to this. Even though Gombaults lyrics and vocals weren't particularly strong, they always wrote within their capacity and to their strengths. No-one would have said they pushed back any boundaries at all, but they were competent, and had enough character to make them worth while.
Kubrick, in the meanwhile, seem to suit Gombault. In this band he displays more versatility and vocal skill than before. Their style of music exposes any vocal limitation less. The lyrics display more complexity, and the songs themselves are structured well once more. They are effective enough but there is something slightly lacking about them - possibly they are over-simple. In places the song construction, the layered blocks of sound and the fairly epic melodies recall bands in the vein of Alkaline Trio in places, though not as three dimensional or screamo based. In places the songs sound somewhat flat generally, although this is probably a production issue. If Kubrick have one major flaw, its that one can't help but feel a lot of bands handle the heaviest aspects of what they do a lot better. Gombaults shouting isn't convincing, seeming to lack feeling or depth. It feels quite artificial, and it is more evident here than anywhere else that Kubrick seem to be writing songs by conventional numbers. As well as this, where his vocal styles mix in songs, they are somewhat uncomfortable bed-partners. More singing, less shouting, and the Lincolnshire based band might well have made more of a positive impression. The first track, “My longest day”, seems the most complete and satisfying because it follows that suggestion. One gets the feeling Gombault should play to his own strengths more in some places, as he used to.
In the Kubrick rubric, Gombault said that their aim is to "put something into the world that wasn't there before", and while this is a competent enough effort, and a debut EP that is better than many, it certainly doesn't do that. If it does add anything, its just another band name to file under Generic, for the time being at least. Four years ago this would have been a much more interesting and out there effort. Gombault has been in the business long enough to be canny, though, and its clear he can evolve and work with different music styles - and he is evidently persistent. If it was a totally new band, their over-all competence would have impressed more. As it is, it's nothing new, or amazing, but it does its job, and with some originality, and some problems addressed, you might be hearing from Kubrick in the future.
Steven Spielberg once said of the cinematic genius from whom this band derive their name “He copied no-one while all of us were scrambling to imitate him”. It is ironic that the band, having chosen the name, will inspire little in the way of imitation themselves. That’s not to say they’re bad – yet they are a small Hollywood production compared to an artistic triumph. Safe and polished, Kubrick push back no boundaries. The Midget in Gombault has grown a lot, though as is to be expected, it isn't really comfortable with its new stature - yet. None the less, if you like the genre, it’s worth a listen. (5/10)
In 1995, 3 Colours Red were at the forefront of the UK Britrock scene and have demographics to prove it. With The Wildhearts unexpectedly returning to chart glory, there seems to be no reason why 3 Colours Red shouldn’t seize their chance at a dramatic comeback – except that they were never as exciting as The Wildhearts. So do we need them? Sure they had some spiky, pop-punk treats, but they were never much more than charming, and certainly never essential, so they needed to make a few changes for their comeback. They could either rough their sound up, or become leaner and more polished.
Curiously, they have gone down both paths. ‘Counterfeit Jesus’ is the grimiest thing they have done yet, with fuzzy, thundering riffs proving that they can do the heavy shit with some depth. On the other extreme, ‘The Union Of Souls’ is a gentle and fragile piece of introspective lush. McCormack impresses with his vocal ability by flicking from delicate whispers (‘Lullaby’) to punk rabble-rousing hollers (‘F.U.C.K’) and has developed a lot in their two year absence. They still do their trademark bouncy pop-punk, like the punchy ‘Desensitised’, but it now has added hooks and melody and it sounds great.
Where they frustrate is that, on occasion, they still sound like they have secret ambitions to be fucking U2. ‘The World Is Yours’ is a tedious, insipid slow-rock track that rudely breaks up the momentum is an otherwise storming opening few tracks. ‘Ceasefire’ sounds like Stereophonics might if they got high and started jamming. We like 3 Colours Red when they sound a bit dangerous or when they go for the heart. Not when they pretend they are doing ballads in stadiums.
It’s hit and miss, but 3 Colours Red have just about proved they are once again worthy of our attention. (6/10)
Cast your mind back to the early nineties American alternative scene and you will remember that grunge and riot grrrl were two exhilarating movements that combined raucous guitar punk with a whole lot of fuck-you attitude. Up there on the crest of the riot grrl branch, at least in terms in quality, were Kat Bjelland’s Babes In Toyland. Many say that Courtney Love wouldn’t be anywhere if she hadn’t of stolen Kat’s schtick.
So whilst Courtney flounders around edging dangerously close to ruin, Bjelland has been plotting her own return, and she sounds more invigorated than ever before. Her screams are like that of a possessed woman, reaching astonishing levels on ‘Asstroglide’. ‘Babydoll’ is another hysterical rally of noise, a furious blast of spite and bitterness, which singles out a particular subject for a barrage of abuse. There are concessions to pretty melodies on the gorgeous ‘Blue Valient’, which features Carina Round, the princess of alternative folk, but it is ‘Emit Time’ which particularly enthrals, with Kat’s crazed yelping detailing an unrequited obsession.
With her old pal buggering around with stylists and co-writers, Kat has shown with ‘All Kneel’ what it punk rock is really about. This is someone who has stayed true to herself and come up with another injection of venom that should not go unnoticed. (7/10)
This feisty London quartet have been making some serious waves within a rock community that seems to be easily impressed of late. Not to say that Days In December don’t sound far better than a group of their youth might, it’s just that they sound exactly like Funeral For A Friend, which is a good thing in that Funeral For A Friend make great records, and a bad thing in that we only need one of them.
There is no denying that Daniel Leigh’s vocals are muscular and that the frantic guitar creates a thrilling collison of melody and thrash, particularly on the angsty and pummelling ‘Bright Lights’. What they need to do is try not to sound over professional and polished, as there is nothing wrong with letting a bit of personality shining through, particularly when you are going for thumping tuneful hardcore. If they could get a bit of personality or innovation into cracking, but rehashed tunes like ‘Glass Vice’, then Days In December will have records to match their exuberant live shows.
The highlight of this promising but frustrating EP is a guest appearance from Ryan of Funeral For A Friend on ‘Last Chance Before The Storm’. Well, you know what they say, imitation is a form of flattery and all that. (5/10)
Initially, Bitch Alert seems like a dreadful name for a band. You guess they are going to sound like a early-nineties Riot Grrl band that never made it and look like they have worn far too much eyeliner for the rain we are having lately. Though much like Kitten from Big Brother, it grows on you, and you put on the disc hoping they have the attitude to carry off their promise of a riot.
It isn’t a bad effort from the Finnish trio. At times the howls of Heinie are cathartic and reminiscent of kick-ass riot grrl ladies like Kat Bjelland and Jennifer Finch. One moment she sounds fragile and angelic and then suddenly she is tearing your ear off. Take ‘Loveson’ with its walloping, aggressive chorus or the threatening growls of ‘Sandy’. There might make an impressive racket for a threesome, with buzzsaw guitars thrashing on the majority of the tracks, but there is a concession to shimmering pop throughout, most impressively on ‘Dope Sick Girl’ and ‘Monday’, which appears to be the best ever track written about going to work on a Monday morning (Chorus: “AGH! Bloody fucking Monday!”). Apart from The Boomtown Rats track, of course.
At times however, angst replaces the feistiness and you feel like you are hearing extracts from a teenage diary. ‘God Doesn’t Like Me’ and ‘Rockets’ are at best something you might find on a Sugar Coma record. It would seem Bitch Alert work best when their volatile tendencies take over and leave the more tender introspection on the backburner.
A record of furious rock it may be, but it isn’t exactly about to induce new waves of anarchy through our country. (6/10)
For some time now floppy-haired, doe-eyed, love-lorn rockers have graced the pages of the rock magazines under the term 'Emo'. We are now used to these well-dressed alternatives to the unkempt attire of the heavy metallers playing emotional, hard music, getting in touch with their inner-selves. Thursday, Sparta, Sunday Day Real Estate, Saves The Day - all quality examples of a blossoming, exciting genre.
However, arguably none of these bands would exist without the Godfather of Emo, Jonah Farrah. This curious man first impressed us when he unleashed the avalanche of crashing riffs and painful honestly that were Far, for whom he was frontman. Releasing a couple of astonishing albums, including 'Water and Solutions', Far built up a fanatical fan-base. They were extremely influential amongst their peers, but were soon overtaken in mass popularity by bands like The Deftones, who introduced a more identitifiable and consistently heavier brand of emo, and we all know that the Deftones kick-started both the wave of emo and nu-metal bands, despite the two genres being world's apart in difference and quality.
So being responsible for some treats and horrors, Jonah disbanded Far and started Onelinedrawing, almost a project of sorts, one in which he sometimes plays solo and sometimes with a full band. 'The Volunteers' is the most coherent release under the 'drawing moniker and shows exactly why Farah has had such immense influence over the rock genre.
For one thing, he is not afraid of going against the grain. Whilst many of his contemporaries scream their angst out over loud, melodic, complex guitar, Farah frequently strips things down to a simplistic level, like on the gorgeous, melting stream of fragility that is 'Stay'. The sexually ambigious 'Oh Boy's', is just a keyboard and guitar, yet has the impact of a thousand Dashboard Confessionals. 'Get Over It' is amazing, a tragic, mess of emotions, but yet it ends in a mass sing-along. It is astonishingly uplifting considering the nature of the lyrics.
Yet, even though he sounds most at home on the haunting, funereal 'Ghosts', Farah has not forgotten how to rock. 'We Had A Deal' is the sound of a man throwing his head back, spitting out his fury and then going absolutely ballistic as guitars thrash and drums are smacked furiously.
'The Volunteers' is an affecting, charming album that is diverse and one step ahead of all the competition. Farah might not have the demographics to compete with the likes of Jimmy Eat World, but he has incredible depth and songwriting skill to compensate. His is a world where things are beautiful, and where the evil that tries to oppress it, must be rallied against. Good luck to him. (8/10)
Whether or not anyone cares about this comeback is open to debate. Seemingly forever delayed, and always secondary to her incessant bad behaviour and troubled lifestyle, some thought it would never arrive. It certainly feels like make or break time for a talented yet tragic star whose creative output over the last five years has been somewhat sketchy. The rumours about this album alone have not been good, with Virgin reportedly not being all satisfied with the original version that was slapped on their desk.
Well whatever they said to her she took some notice. Or perhaps it was just the helping hand of a number of writers and musicians that took part in making this record, most notable being Linda Perry, the former 4 Non Blondes singer. There is also guitar playing from Brody Armstrong who is not even credited on the record. None of this seems particularly punk rock or gives any faith that Love has come back to form, but thankfully, this is a great record and it has Courtney stamped all over it.
Opener ‘Mono’ is an unreserved call-to-arms. Written about the jock-rockers that have tore into rock over the last few years, she declares war on their culture, demanding change and, although it hardly seems feasible, she seems to think she will be on the winning side. ‘Julian, But I’m A Little Older Than You’ is a sly dig at the current crop of retro bands who think they know it all, and contains heaps of Courtney’s trademark wit and humour. Elsewhere her other turbo-speed efforts are slightly less arresting, although ‘I’ll Do Anything’ was always going to rock when she decided to make it sound like ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’.
The real eye-openers are tracks like ‘Sunset’ Strip’ and ‘Uncool’ where she lays her emotions and wounds wide open for all to dissect. The former is an incredible tune that drifts from summery Malibu pop to a furious warts-and-all rant about her reasons for her liking of pills. ‘All The Drugs’ sees her proclaim that “With all my love/ With all of my money/ Nothing feels as good as the drugs”. She certainly sounds like she has been dabbling throughout ‘Life Despite God’ which is almost uncomfortable to listen to it her emotion is so raw. Through slurring words and out-of-tune cries she announces “I will fuck you up/ I will feel no guilt/ Cos it’s in my nature baby”.
‘America’s Sweetheart’ is revelationary and fascinating listening, but sadly it is not the classic that Courtney needed to get her faltering career back on track. It won’t win any her any new friends as it is too negative and personal for that, and her own fanbase are largely likely to accept it uncritically or have already moved on to The Distillers.
If she was to promote this enough you could imagine it really working for her. Thought, if her personal life is in the disarray that the media constantly claim it is, you wonder how Love and Virgin intend for her to advance with this. Yet Courtney is never one to be written off, and this record proves just how essential she can be. (8/10)
Do you remember picking out the gorgeous vocal harmonies from Hole? Do you remember the rumbling bass in the latter years of The Smashing Pumpkins? That was the glamorous talents of Melissa Auf Der Maur. Always the cool kid on the block she was at the first shows the Pumpkins did and was djing at alternative venues at an early age. She played The Reading Festival two weeks after joining Hole and helped soothe a crushed and torn Courtney Love who had just lost her husband. She ended up in the Pumpkins, her favourite band of all time and toured the world on their farewell tour.
Frustrated with always being in the background, Auf Der Maur decided it was her turn to shine. She wrote and produced this entire album herself, roping in guest musicians along the way including James Iha (Pumpkins), Twiggy Ramierez (Marilyn Manson) and Josh Homme (Queens Of The Stone Age). The fact such impressive rockers were prepared to lend their hand is testament to how much she is respected as a musician. That isn’t to say that her own identity was compromised though, as this solo debut clearly proves.
With the rock world increasingly becoming dominated by male figures again, what is crucial is that this record is naturally heavy. Her love of classic rock is evident with the music being dark, twisting and psychedelic. Things are also more than a little sexual, with subject matter playing heavily on innuendo and metaphors, tracks like the crashing ‘I’ll Be Anything You Want’ and the awesome sinister tones of ‘Beast Of Honor’ being sensual and suggestive. You can almost feel the pleasure of her current squeeze Andrew WK as she whispers ‘Plug in it/ So I can digest you’ during the eerie ‘Taste You’, with a menacing, sweeping guitar threatening to engulf everything else.
Although a little repetitive in content and a little over-produced in sound, this is a cracking effort that shows Auf Der Maur is ready to put her leather boots on and take some glory for herself. With a talent like hers, she surely cannot fail. (7/10)
It is bloody annoying that Lost Prophets have such a knack for a tune because everything about them makes you want to hate them. Who wants proper rock ‘n’ roll played by a band who make Busted look like filthy crusties? Toned arses hanging out their trousers and immaculate haircuts from Toni and Guy, the Welsh six piece spend more time on their appearance then the Beckhams. They also signed ditched their raw sound to make a record so polished they could make Linkin Park sound underground. Come on though, lets put our prejudices aside.
You really can’t deny this is a strong effort. When they aren’t blatantly ripping off Faith No More and Incubus, they are actually quite a force. ‘Last Train Home’ is their radio-shagging, emo tune that sends Ian Watkins’ vocals soaring with quite some beauty. ‘We are Godzilla, You are Japan’ is those more hardcore sensibilities betraying the designer jeans, and at one point it gets so rock they could give Slayer a run for their meatheads. If ‘Burn Burn’ is a rousing destructive anthem, then ‘Hello Again’ is a philosophical musing.
It’s just that everything on ‘Start Something’ makes them sound so desperate for success it’s pathetic. It’s that which makes you suspicious of their tans, pecs and perfect hair. They appear not to be authentic, and what makes it worse is that they swear blind they are, and you just can’t believe it. Nice try guys, great debut album, but after this latest effort I’d rather listen to Busted. (6/10)
It was in 2001 that Defenestration exploded into our consciousness. Launching themselves from Corby, the same hometown of Raging Speedhorn, their debut album was a monstrous and spiteful statement of intent from such a young band. Fronted by the miniscule Gen Tasker, they had a vocalist who could roar for Britain, and those frightening growls were heightened by some impressive sludge-metal from her enthusiastic band mates.
Though somehow they got left behind whilst the New British Rock brigade grew bigger and bigger. Lost Prophets, Hundred Reasons and Raging Speedhorn took their distinctive looks and powerful sounds to unexpected heights, but Defenestration were left plotting a revenge attack. ‘Ray Zero’ is the result.
What is clear is that the band means serious business this time. The music is harder, faster and heavier, with fewer concessions to the prettier melodies that decorated their debut. Their sludge-metal is dirtier than before, the riffs roll and crash, and things even go punk at the strangest moments. Look at the titles; ‘Drunk Till Death’, ‘I Want To Kill’, ‘Snuffling For Trouble’ - is it any surprise that this record is so forceful in nature?
Gen sounds furious this time around, her screams more powerful and hate-filled. On ‘Blood Song’ she sounds like a Goliath rather than a tiny, cheeky lady. Her lyrics seem to largely centre on the trials and tribulations of relationships. “Don’t walk away from me!” she hollers on ‘Emo’, and you feel like you ought to stand to attention. Elsewhere, she happily sings “No sadness with departure/ No feelings anymore/ It’s lost but no disaster/ It feels good after all”, before launching into a tirade of brutal screams. It’s full of adrenaline and emotion, and best of all, heavy as fuck.
With hardcore music at long last making a firm stand and making waves through Poison The Well and Funeral For A Friend, it can surely be only a matter of time before Defenestration succeed in helping making people see hardcore music is the way forward for metal. (8/10)
The frontmen of contemporary metal bands are mostly a bunch of babies. They concern themselves less with primal anger and more with self-indulgent angst, and probably seek comfort in the arms of their mother's bi-weekly. Though there was a time when fearsome machoism dominated heavy rock, and Phil Anselmo of Pantera was one of those who probably crunched the bones of little children for a nighttime hobby.
Pantera helped shape the heaviest sounds of the nineties and are certainly one of the most respected outfits in metal, but for now his baritone growl fronts a 'side-project' called Superjoint Ritual. The aim was to produce a punishing record that combines hardcore fury with pissed-off punk. The target was hit, and this superb album is like the best bits of Pantera jamming with The Exploited. It sounds organic, focused and intense and there is little room for whinging.
Ther is, however, plenty of comment regarding the world's recent attitude towards the U.S. The title of the record is a definitive statement of defiance and this pro-American rallying underpins a number of tracks, cumulating in Anselmo hollering "American citizens are the most most pissed-off motherfuckers in the world!". Well they would be with Bush in charge, wouldn't they (Oh, sorry did I miss the point?)? It might be a knee-jerk reaction commentary, but as a whole 'A Lethal Dose...' is less preachy and more venomous, with the muscular vocals and deadly guitar making tracks like 'Dress Like A Target' and 'Symbol Of Nevermore' stand head and shoulders above the piss-poor excuses for rock that have been released of late.
So Metallica are storming the charts again and now Anselmo is ready to fire the rock scene up again. Big up the old guard. (8/10)
Punks until they die, The Exploited aren't going to change for anyone. Championed just after the Seventies punk period by the more fearsome members of the punk community for playing hard and acting even rougher, Wattie and the boys have always caused destruction and irritation wherever they have played and whenever they have released a record.
Of course, some have mocked their whole career. Some have said they shout about nothing in particular apart from about how fucked up society is, throwing in numerous swear words to try and compensate for lack of argument and suggestion as to what should be done about what infuriates them so. Some have whispered that their audience are the no-brainer variety of punks (and if my spies serve me correctly, the evidence was in abundance at their recent London show, where the crowd were throwing about racist insults like shit in a pig sty). You do have to wonder. Titles on this album include 'Fuck The System', 'Fucking Liar' and 'You're A Fucking Bastard'. Fuck fuck, blah blah. Wattie - famous for devastating the more materialistic of punks by lobbing off his Mohican and replacing it with red braids - clearly isn't mellowing out. Though is 'Fuck The System' really all mindless ranting?
Well they are pissed because our leaders tell us lies. Wattie hollers about losing hope because there is nothing to believe in. There are simple blasts of fury about chaos, noise and people in general. What exactly we are supposed to do about these negative circumstances, one can only hazard a guess. However, if it is pure thrashing punk you are craving, you are in luck. Having veered their sound through their career between brutal metal and crunchy speed-punk, they seem to have taken to a melodic version of the latter. It is definitely enjoyable, if not just a little dumb.
It is strangely comforting that the fire and venom never leaves the heart and mind of The Exploited, but once again, their creative output proves to be an experience with a gaping great hole in the middle of it. (5/10)
In rock music, the parp of a trumpet is enough to drive one mad. It is so intrusive, not in a rebellious way, but one that is just maddening. I never liked Madness. Less Than Jake don't rock my world. I can just about cope with Snuff and No Doubt. Whoever decided trumpets in punk music was a good idea?
It's probably best I am not told the answer. All the same, who would have thought that these seven scally-wags would provide such a refreshing change? They never stop bloody parping, but somehow they manage to exhilarate you, as they skank along with insane glee. Jesus, these guys aren't anything new, or clever for that matter, but they make you want to dance instead of run for the hills. A first for a punk band with trumpets.
The brass section punctuates acerbic guitar rhythms in all the right places and defies you to remain sitting still. It's all about skanking with a shit-eating grin spread across your face. Dumb, childish and obvious as this album undoubtedly is, 'Elephants' is fantastic with it's drunken, anthemic chorus. Current single 'Empty Tank' is an account of the mind-altering affects of too much time spent on the road, which delights upon descending into a metal section. Chaos reigns during 'TV', with the brass instruments going full at it, and strangely it doesn't make you cry.
Really, you could forgive them for giving the album such an annoying title. (7/10)
For a band so laid back about recording, 'Mon Chi Chi' is very energetic. You could initially be forgiven for wondering whether this is more garage-rock clinging onto the back of the bandwagon, but there is a refreshing pop sheen to the melodies and lyrics that puts All Systems Go into the company of Foo Fighters as opposed to The Von Bondies.
Take the frantic, urban charge of 'Taking Up Space' for starters, the punked-up glee behind each riff practically challenging you not to dance. 'All These Things' is even more blatant, revealing an unashamed love of classic pop, barely concealed by the spunky guitars. These emotional tracks also contain an inspiring positivism, particularly 'Motorbikes' which states "I'm scared of motorbikes, so I've made up my mind to ride one". There might be the odd tinge of sadness, as vocalist John Kaster pleas for a functional relationship during 'Roll Your Eyes', but here is a rock record that puts happiness first. Something we though had all but become extinct just lately.
Perhaps the pinnacle of loveliness is former Hole and Smashing Pumpkins bassist Melissa Auf Der Maur lending her vocal talents to 'Meagan's Law', her floating tones complimenting those of Kaster beautifully.
All Systems Go are unique in that they could slot quite comfortably onto the Warped Tour or into an episode of Dawson's Creek. Their excitable tunes bring the same shit-eating grin to your face that Weezer find success in. Makes a change from Korn, doesn't it? (6/10)
Little Hell are named after a Costa Rican slum that deals in cocaine and related debauchery. They would probably be the perfect headlining act if the said dive was to stage a rock 'n' roll gig. Maybe Little Hell were always destined to arise from the remains of late nineties misanthropists Cairrie, or perhaps all those drinking binges with fervent supporters Ash have corrupted them further, but I'm only surprised this album doesn't come with a free line of coke.
Hardcore discordant noise rattles along like The Pixies giving a paranoid Placebo a good kicking; the glam-grunge riffs complimenting their refined heroin chic image perfectly. The build-up in 'Hurting For Pleasure' is filled with a terrific tension, finally letting loose with a gigantic outpour of arrogant swagger, a trick that works many times elsewhere. 'Music Masochists' lets the dogs out on the teen sensations of the pop world with a playful but cutting snarl, but the closing ballad 'You're All I Got In This Lousy World' seems a strange inclusion on the end of an otherwise hedonistic frenzy. As far as Little Hell are concerned, anyone with a brain likes rock music and gets the most out of its potential pleasures. The efforts of the band are to provide an appropriately spiky soundtrack for those times of reckless abandon.
The prescriptions at the Demonic Advisory Centre must be quite a read. (8/10)
At 22 years old, Conor Oberst is already something of a musical prodigy. Having been churning out consistently good records since the age of 14, the last of which being the stunning 'Fevers And Mirrors', he is now being compared to a young Bob Dylan. No wonder he sounds worried. Indeed, over this impossibly long and immense rollercoaster record of emotions, Oberst gets even further inside his own head than usual, tormenting himself not only over the fact that he is troubled, but that it is necessary for him to sound troubled.
So what we have here is a postmodern singer-songwriter who is painfully self-aware, full of contradictions and who revels in retaining a certain amount of ambiguity in his lyrics. He is clever and like to share that. A poet playing games, Oberst seems to be putting theatre to music. He might be pretentious but he is brilliantly so. In that way he is very much like Dylan, and perhaps Nick Cave. During 'False Advertising', a track that takes the piss out of itself and the listener also, he demands, "Give me all your pity and your money". "Onto a stage I was pushed with my sorrow well rehearsed" he continues, forcing us to contemplate just how genuine his angst is. Is Oberst a caricature of himself? To confuse matters further the track is musically overblown with an orchestra adding much grandeur with strings and percussion. Even the mistake mid-song is rehearsed. He is playing with us and you begin to wonder if the constant mind-fucks that litter the early stages of 'Lifted...' will spoil the remainder of the album.
Fortunately this is not the case. There are many other concerns to be explored. The tracks are dense and sometimes gruelling, containing an incredible amount of words. 'Don't Know When But A Day Is Gonna Come' considers God and the uncertainty of things we take for granted. 'Let's Not Shit Ourselves (To Love And Be Loved)' takes in a suicide attempt and much autobiography. 'Laura Laurent' is a beautiful, tragic ode to a girl. There is no room for compromise, the natural dynamic of the songs taking them where they may, and they twist and spiral into some strange territories. The alternative-folk vibe that runs through all his releases, with the exception of that from his recent rock project Desparecidos, is present and correct, but never entirely dependable. It is hard work and numerous listens are required to absorb all of the complications and profundity, but the rewards justify the perseverance.
'Lifted...' is very ambitious and Oberst seems to isolate himself a little too much from the listener for this to better 'Fever and Mirrors'. Still, this is an incredible, perplexing and original record. The world is there for the taking if he can cope with even more adoratiuon than he already recieves. (8/10)
You can always tell which of the new metal bands are going to be doing well in the coming months by checking out what t-shirts people are wearing at the alternative rock festivals. If the public at the Reading Festival are any accurate indication of preferred choices for the upcoming generation of metal bands, then SiKTh, Breed 77 and Fony can all expect to have a good twelve months. I certainly would not be surprised if Fony were laying waste to the Carling Tent next summer.
Bucking the trend for nu-metal whinging and tantrums, Fony deal in dynamics and raw emotion. A cross between The Deftones, Far and Pantera, the sound is cutting and powerful, with plenty of sincerity behind the lyrics. Aggression can be found in abundance here, but the Redhill gang are not Neanderthals. Check 'Routine Irregular' for its pretty melodies and Olly Gibbons' excellent vocal impression of Jeff Buckley. And it is Gibbons that makes this debut a cut above most new metal releases, with his ability to flick between floating tones to evil growls working a treat against the slamming rhythms. If anything, Fony can be guilty of laziness in that they have included the odd generic nu-metal track on here, but generally this is diamond stuff.
Sharpening their teeth and building up their muscle, Fony are acquiring a fiercesome reputation as an awesome live band. They can now boast that they have made a punishing debut album that assures us Fony are no fakes. (6/10)
You can determine that Queen Adreena deal in spooky goth theatrics just by glancing at the distorted photography that decorates the cover booklet. If you heard their debut, 'Taxidermy', you will have no doubt about it, for it was a gloomy affair. And anyone who has witnessed one of their terrifying live shows will be assured that this band are bucking the trend set by their rock contemporaries. Teenage angst has grown into something far darker for Katie Jane Garside. Here we enter a claustrophobic world where bitterness and paranoia lurk in every corner.
Much more furious than their previous work, 'Drink Me' is very demanding. Grating guitars rumble tirelessly under Garside's intense vocals and create a genuinely unnerving feeling of dementia. It is a non-stop, pain-staking exploration of the creepiest areas of the mind. So we have the sad, resigned tone of 'My Silent Undoing' that appears to tell of a struggle with anorexia, "dehydrated cutting bones, today I'm over 7 stone", and the nightmarish lullaby that is 'Sleeping Pill' which concludes with Garside whispering "Fuck Me Baby" like she is enrapped in a world of tortured bliss. 'A Bed Of Roses' thrashes and stings, a brief explosion of desperation whilst closer 'I Am The Way' is doom-laden, flirting with lush biblical imagery.
'Drink Me' is a schizophrenic, consuming record, that is engulfed in anger. Occasionally the troubled warblings of Garside can get irritating, mainly because they are so unrelentless, but there is enough sincerity in her voice to keep you fascinated, in a morbid way.
So take a listen to some darker concerns. (7/10)
Chumbawamba have been celebrated, laughed at and completely dismissed in their time. Then, so have most of the Pop Idol contestants, but this eight-strong collective have a vastly more colourful and appealing past than those puppets. Having successfully balanced a deep obsession for melodic pop music with furious left-wing politics since forming in the Eighties, they have released some classic anthems (including 'Tubthumping') and tirelessly fought many injustices ranging from New Labour's treatment of the Liverpool dockers to the wrongful imprisonment of Satpal Ram. Unafraid to court controversy, but always careful to not rant without good music to back it up, Chumbawamba are an underrated force.
Their class is evident for all to see on this unpredictable record. Continuing to keep their musical agenda fresh and unpredictable, on 'Readymades' they have created gentle and almost unsettling soundscapes, combining dance pulses with folk samples and breakbeats with sweeping melodies. There is an aching, more emotional sound to that of their previous work, but this should not be taken as an indication that Alice Nutter and her cohorts have mellowed.
The vocals might be less strident in terms of volume but the band is no less angry. The difference here is that rather than creating a hullabaloo they are taking time for sad reflection, looking at the various ills and tragedies that have occured not in just the present time, but centuries ago. There is a lot of history to be found here, including 'Jacob's Ladder' which mourns the loss of 541 British sailors that were left to drown after Winston Churchill decreed that the lives of the Norwegian Royal family were more important than those of his men. 'If It Is To Be, It Is Up To Me' celebrates the Peasant's Revolt of 1381 when royalty was almost tipped off the throne by an angry people. The issues of today are dealt with in 'Sewing Up Crap' which lambastes corporations that employ children to make sweaters for a pittance, and 'Without Reason Or Rhyme', which expresses a quiet fury that an unarmed man carrying a table leg can be shot by police with no questions asked.
Chumbawamba refuse to let those who have suffered or been mistreated be forgotten about. They give a voice to those who find it hard to get one. 'Readymades' might be ambient, lush and dreamy, but there is enough pain and politics in the lyrics to let us know that the band are still up for the fight. (7/10)
Logan Mader and Whitfield Crane - what a couple of jokers, eh? The former changes band every couple of years (Machine Head, Soulfly) and the latter will always be remembered for rock karaoke favourite 'Everything About You' from his Ugly Kid Joe days. Apparently, the pair were as thick as thieves when their paths crossed on the Ozzfest bill of 1998 and collaboration was always on the cards. Medication was formed soon after.
Not surprisingly, the results are a mix of what they had been doing for the last few years before Medication began. Crane has brought his matured, floaty vocals, riddled with angst, whilst Mader supplies the sledgehammer riffs. You can hear the sensitive melodies of Life Of Agony, Crane's former band in the glorious 'Underground' and the sludge-heavy Machine Head from their glory days in 'Loaded Gun'. Though for all its predictable nature, the proof is in the tunes, and Medication have them plenty.
There is a striking sense of purpose behind the crashing guitar chords, something that passes by much of the metal genre lately, and enough quirkiness in the music to keep it lively. A Faith No More influence looms over nearly all the tracks, namely 'Prince Valium' and 'Super Pop', the playful edge ensuring the dark bite in the lyrics is not too suffocating.
This record could have been made at any time during the last eight years, which is indicative of how metal has not progressed at the rate that many claim it to have, and it sounds all the better for it. Not a turntable in sight, Medication could be just the right prescription for metal fans disilluioned with the current rock trend for bullshit. (7/10)
The electro fiends of the Eighties will emerge from their caves like bats ready for a hunt at night now that the electroclash movement is on a glitter-fuelled crusade to put a certain darkness and glamour back into dance music. Soft Cell are playing the festivals. Gary Numan is getting a break again. And now Daniel Ash, the former front man with goth merchants Bauhaus, is gatecrashing the party.
This is no bad thing. 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' may be an alternative staple but Ash is not content to plough former glories - he wants to create new ones. Locking himself into the studio with a fragile and troubled mental state has fashioned something he can call entirely his own. It's a solo effort that lies somewhere between the big-beat of the Chemical Brothers and the cyber pulses of Ultraviolence.
Ash is now shunning the guitar is favour of beats and bass. Whilst some of the simpler efforts are impressive - notably the unravelling stomper 'Hollywood Fix' and the middle-Eastern flavoured 'The Money Song' - it is when the eclectic nature of Ash comes to light that the results are most sublime. The eerie bass line and shuddering, plodding vocal of 'Ghost Writer' suggests that those gothic tendencies are still on the boil and the trip-hop influenced 'Kid 2000' features Daniel's Nephew reading visions of a future that now lie in our past. To completely catch us off guard after a period of moody electronica, 'Trouble' boasts a gorgeous sunshine pop melody that in a perfect world would ride the top of the charts.
It's a curious insight into the mind of Daniel Ash and takes in many different sounds and experimentations along the way, never losing an air of cool. I bet he wears his sunglasses at night. (7/10)
According to singer Pascal Gamboni, Clean are too wierd for the Swiss music industry. Over here they are perhaps too pedestrian. Whatever, the band know where their potential audience might lie and have decamped to Bristol, partly to get their break and partly as a homage to their favourite trip-hop spookies Portishead. They even have their very own tribute to Portishead in all but name on the scratch and sample mash of 'Cleaner'.
You might now be starting to get the picture but Clean are one of those bands that you cannot dislike despite reservations as they have too many pinnacles of lush on this debut offering; the sublime bass grooves on 'Hillard', the unexpected guitar solo on the righteous 'Stronger Man' and the sweet meanderings of 'Room 16'. The ability to keep the listener guessing is a ploy they use well, suddenly breaking down to sparse melodies at the strangest moments or suddenly gliding from lazy indie to trippy psychedlica in a matter of seconds.
Their obvious love of British music spanning from Massive Attack to Placebo to The Verve does grate when it stumbles into the uncomfortable realms of emulation. Too many of the tracks here sound like they are pitiful attempts to recreate something that has gone before. When they are good they are very, very good. When they try too hard they are horrid.
Clean love their brit-pop, indie and trip-hop and are making music that would have sounded lush a few years back, blending some of the best, and occasionally most tiresome, elements of those genres into three minute nuggets. It's just a shame for them that we much prefer American guitar-garage, emo-rock and two-step these days. Keep an eye on them but don't wet your pants, like. (6/10)
Unsigned Brighton hopefuls Little 10 have picked a deceptive moniker. For a start their are only four of them and their sound is anything but tiny. They make a claustrophobic, brooding racket to soundtrack tormenting thoughts spiralling around in your head. Very much on an emo-tip, these five lengthy pieces of darkness are ocassionally sparse and minimal, but more often sludge-heavy slow-moving dynamic monsters. Perhaps like a less complex Tool or Hundred Reasons with cement in their boots. Singer Giles Philips mumbles "there's something inside" like a man with a disturbing emotional fear on 'My Keeper's Look' before screaming the words like they could be a last deadly warning. If his vocals could be more coherent elsewhere his would be an ideal voice to compliment those times when your stomach starts churning with anxiety. They aren't THAT funereal though, with 'Black Pales Grey' giving an impressive insight into the melodic grunge capabilities of the band. Success will only make that moniker more misleading in months to come, to be sure. (7/10)
There are some things you can safely assume about music; the boy-band will sing about love and have good pecs, the nu-metaller will cuddle himself when performing thanks to a terrible like of tragedy, the hip-hopper will mention guns and bitches at least twenty times during a song. However, ther is little more predictable in music than the goth - or sorry - the industrialist, darling. But maybe I'm assuming too much. Let's ignore the fact they look like Mudvayne after Orgy have applied their make-up. Turn a blind eye to the SonG TiTleS writTeN liKe ThiS. Give benefit of the doubt to their dubious choice of album title. I bet they don't sound like Gary Numan gone nuts at all!
OK, so I was almost right. The opening of 'sPace Junk (In the 21st Coma ship)' is impressively deranged, all strangulated cries and suffocating doom, but then the robotic vocals and plodding electro-metal kick in and it sounds neither frightening or futuristic. Singer Syd Ogy declares he has a "complicated universe" and a "twisted mind" on 'eCentric monnDancer' but we think he just wants to be the gothic Thom Yorke. For such troubled people, who think they occupy entire universes to themselves, they are boringly pedestrian, at times barely going through the motions, and this is their debut album.
A few impressive heavy guitar bursts and the odd claustrophobic moment provide brief respite, but on the whole these are just goths with a fixation for David Bowie. At least boy-boys can dance, right? (3/10)
It was always on the cards. Country band Bright Eyes have always flirted with alternative rock, their folk music always retaining a certain bombastic dynamic that has at times recalled the lo-fi pop of Dinosaur Jr. It is almost like they need to get it out of their system. Make the racket they have been dying to play. Do the grunge thing. So Bright Eyes become Desaparecidos.
Singer Conor Oberst, a young prolific voice of affected youth, has always sounded on the verge of a breakdown. At times he hollers and spits his lyrics with so much passion it would be embarassing if it wasn't so amazing. Most musicians begin to grow old gracefully as they leave behind their youth, but Oberst has never set his unimaginable angst to rock before, and it seems right that he should. An inversion of convention almost. Though rather than whinge away indulgently, as is traditional with American alterno-rockers, he addresses some wider issues and blows most of his contemporaries out of the water. And they are just a one-album project.
It is definitely their political album. The rants are fast and furious. Consumer culture and materialism are attacked for vanity and cruelty ('What's New For Fall'); the American dream is lambasted for turning citizens into conventional, mundane robots who end up depressed ('Man and Woman (the Former)') and western foreign policy is deemed selfish; "The bombs burst in the air/ There was a city once now there is nothing there/ Our freedom comes at their expense" ('The Happiest Place On Earth'). It is one of the first rock albums to address world events post-september 11th, but the main concern is the crudity of endless development, the destruction of open-space so people can have their Starbucks and grand homes ('Greater Omaha' for one).
Throughout 'Read Music/ Speak Spanish' there is a longing for change in government policies and general culture. The gritty, downtuned guitars help convey a sense of dissatisfaction. Though, towards the end of this surprisingly short album (Bright Eyes affairs are usually very long), the urgency gets lost and closing tracks are forgettable.
Bright Eyes are musicians who can turn their hand to many genres. They have relevant and vital things to say, whether introspective or broader. (8/10)
The time might seem right for Pornorphans what with Swedish bands gaining so many plaudits. Even better, the goth scene is staging something of a comeback over here. Described enthusiastically as Marilyn Manson with Shirley Manson on vocals, this debut album sounds like a dark delight of a challenge. Sadly, it's a bit like biting into a revel and finding a coffee centre.
At best, Pornorphans are a subdued Jack Off Jill. At worst, they are Aqua gone goth. The song-titles give it all away instantly: 'Creeping Beauty', 'Flithmaster' and 'Stalker' all sonud like they were dreamed up by some sixth-formers after a few snakebite and black's. What they are supposed to represent is something dangerous, threatening, unknown. What a shame the most evil thing they have to offer are some lumpen riffs and dreary vocals, all delivered at maudlin pace.
'Beyond Good and Evil' sound particularly lazy when you think of the innovative ways goth has influenced bands like Nine Inch Nails, Fischerspooner and Ultraviolence recently. We'll be sticking to The Hives then, thanks. (3/10)
With the mainstream dance scene becoming increasingly stagnant and stale, and even the search for new chemical enhancements apparently proving fruitless, attention is rapidly turning to a collection of Euro-based bands who are challenging dance culture to become exciting again. Whatever label you have heard attached to the movement; be it synthcore, electroclash, electrotrash, or romo; they are all pretty apt. These bands are dressing-up in style, adding performance and entertainment to their shows and making some gloriously slutty music.
From Ladytron to Miss Kittin to Chicks On Speed, the number of acts realising that dance music needs to sound post-human again, and heave with danger and intrigue, is rising. The most interesting of these bands are Fischerspooner, whose enormous European floor-filler 'Emerge' you nay already be familiar with. They are a New York pop-art duo who bring fashion, fun and sex into their pulsating eletro. They sound a little bit like Underworld taking the Pet Shop Boys into a seedy underground S&M club.
'Fischerspooner' is stunningly simplistic but very fresh. Every track is a disco-punk nu-wave goth-electro feast that throbs and vibrates with zeal and conviction. 'Turn On' stutters and oozes soul, 'Emerge' is a disco-rave chart-shagging anthem in waiting and 'Tone Poem' is simply fragile and beautiful. With such a striking frontman in bisexual, make-up wearing, fashion-conscious, extravagant, extroverted performance artist that is Casey Spooner, it can only be a matter of time before they explode into the mainstream and give it the pasting it deserves.
Just signed to Ministry Of Sound, Fischerspooner are gagging to take film, music, art and fashion to a higher state of consciousness. Get high with them. (9/10)
Smallsville is the charming enough show that follows the adventures of Superman before he got his red pants. It's lacking in stimulation at times but is a pleasant enough platform for adolescent lust. That it never really gets out of third gear makes Remy Zero that ideal band to provide the theme tune in the form of the brilliant 'Save Me', definitely the best song on this, their third album.
The Alabama boys have been earnestly producing graceful and melodic music for six years now and are about to introduce themselves to a wider audience. The Smallsville connection will help, as will accolades from Radiohead and Travis. They have much in common with the latter, being completely inoffensive, having a knack for sparkling pop songs, occassionally managing to pull at the heartstrings. Though after a while, being described as 'nice' and 'agreeable' becomes a little too bland.
They have a while before their occassional mediocrity becomes a problem like it has with Travis and Stereophonics however. Remy Zero's guitar rock is textured enough to keep things interesting. Cinjun Tate's vocals are wonderfully versatile, soaring on the anthemic 'Save Me' and subtle on 'Out/In', suited to the often aching rhythms behind them.
Lazy and sublime or assertive and powerful seem to be the two extremes with Zero. It's good enough. For now. (6/10)
Bloody hell, The Dillinger Escape Plan are angry. They have a fixation with Mike Patton's nuttier works and have reached even crazier conclusions with them. Just lately, everyone from Lost Prophets to Hoobastank has been banging on about the wonderful extremes of the ex-Faith No More singer and the bands he has fronted since. Quite whether the influence has been a good thing for The Dillinger Escape Plan probably only they can judge.
The title serves as a warning. For what we have here is hardcore-thrash-jazz rock with maddening time signatures, solos and riffs played at the speed of light and a man called Dimitri hollering so hard you wonder how his throat could cope with such punishment. How they can possibly manage to keep their psychotic anger even vaguely controlled is wonder enough, but how they make music so vexing and, well, horrible, sound purposeful is just a mystery. 'Calculating Infinity' is an absolutely astonishing, rubbish and fantastic record all at once.
Dimitri is clearly a man with serious worries and issues, his vocal arsenal unrelentless and violent. It is just that it seems such exorcisms of demons could be more effective if there wasn't so much complication and fret-masturbation. Yet this Stampin Ground-doing-jazz head-spinner is infinitely preferable to them running around murdering every soul they come across as you could can well imagine they might if they didn't have music to unleash their terrible rage into. But then again they do have lyrics like "alfresco slapsticked foam mouth sunshine/ Jim fear has done it again/ Slash her and bash her porno freak/ Flaming hermit, lonely fool/ Throw another crap on the stove Jimmy".
So now we aren't so sure. (5/10)
Bored of waiting for Courtney Love to release some new material? Tired of souless pop-punk crashing the airwaves? Need some anarchy in your life? Then look no further than The Distillers - a gem in a land of well-behaved, groomed and sappy rockers. 'Sing Sing Death House' is their second album and they have heaps of old-fashioned punk spirit running through their veins. Really, you should go and buy it. Simple as that.
The Distillers don't pussy-foot around. You won't catch them polishing up their sound until every ounce of passion has been squeezed out. Their sound is raw with a brutal edge, playful but vicious. They have absolutely nothing new to contribute to music in terms of innovation, but that isn't their concern. Cast your mind back to the bile and rage of The Sex Pistols and you'll have some idea of how this angry bunch approach their punk-rock.
Frontwoman Brody Armstrong is the wife of Tim from Rancid and she is one of the best things about The Distillers. Right now, we are short of uncontrollable females in rock and Brody is one of the last few embodiments of disorder. She grew up on a diet of Seventies punk and early-Hole which might explain her crazed onstage performances and she takes her influences into her music also, sounding like a amplified Courtney Love trying to outscreech Johnny Rotten whilst playing guitar like Joey Ramone on crack. The woman got attitude.
The tales are definitely from the hard-side. "Working single mother in an urban struggle/ Blames herself now because I grew up troubled", shouts Brody, taking us on a journey through her background of tough-times which has seen hatred, suicide and violence by the sound of it. "The thing about destiny/ Is it never ever sets you free" she spits, but what is most striking about 'Sing Sing Death House' is that despite the focus on the gritty moments of life, there is an uplifting sense of triumph throughout; "Freedom rise up for me...I got freedom and my youth...It hit me I got everything I need", it's all there. There is a real gratitude amongst the furious lyrics and an ability to not let pain censor the pleasure of life.
"We play punk rock 'n' roll/ If we didn't we got no soul" is the refrain on 'Sick Of It All'. They certainly play like their lives depend on it. The Distillers are coming from the wild side. Soap up your mohican. (8/10)
Review by guest contributor: Wes Finch
Ever seen the film 'Swingers'? No? Well it's very funny and you should. It's where Two Day Rule is explained too: if you get a girl's number, leave it two days before you call her. Call sooner and you look eager and uncool, leave it longer and you might lose your chance. Dating, the slings and arrows of outrageous pop-punk teenage-dom: these are the subjects of the songs on 'When You're Ready'.
You probably wouldn't guess they were from Bristol when you hear the power-punk sound of this Bristol four-piece. With obvious influences from NOFX, The Atari's and Blink 182 among others, the twist is in the two-pronged vocal assault from Neil Murray and Andrea Kenny. Bassist Craig Smith and drummer Matt Woolman bring a solid and tight backbone to the songs and are just as good at doing the high-octane pop-punk thing as the ska thing. This is no weak record but it would be refreshing to hear them define their own sound in a more home-grown vein (and no, I don't mean trip-hop and decks).
The melodic songs and sometimes funny angsty lyrics make for a good listen but I definitely wouldn't pass up a chance to see this band live judging from the pace and energy that the studio recordings still seem to have. So, if you want to get sweaty in the pit and maybe lose your shoes, go see them. I doubt you'd be disappointed.
The best thing about Calvin Russell is his ability to completely absorb the listener as he unravels his emotions until they are laid bare. He is trying to make sense of the world around him, musing over relationships, feelings of insecurity and disappointments. Yet he is no fatalist, he merely tells it like it is and this rich sense of realism underlines all of the tracks on 'Rebel Radio'. He takes you deep into his mind and shows you a fascinating place.
Russell grew up in Austin, Texas and appeared to react to the strict sense of moralism that is prevelant in the area. He was quite the rebel as a teenager, robbing a grocer's shop and dabbling with hardcore drugs, both of these leading to stints in jail. Inbetween sentences he would slug it out in dire dead-end jobs - until he linked up with some musicians which would eventually lead to a contract with a French record company. A whole host of albums would follow, many highly acclaimed, and he found many loyal fans around Europe.
'Rebel Radio' is his first album to be released in his home country for some while and it is surely time that his talents were recognised there. He plays the blues with a genuine passion and humour, weaving in and out of the anthemic, stepping into the dark and then showering it with the light. With a variety of moods to share, he wears his heart on his sleeve, acknowledging his sadness and longing with a wry smile. Looking back with some fondness during 'It Is What It Is' he sings: "I've been obnoxious/ I've been unconscious/ I've been all kinds of things that are hard to spell/ ...I've been so cool I could hardly stand myself". He pauses to reflect upon the beauty of his home surroundings in the Wild West from time to time, sounding like he takes everything in his stride with a maturity that only older-age can bring. He can do the confrontational ('I Never Cared For You') right through to the graceful ('Country Boy') adding cheeky elements of country and folk to his melancholy blues along the way.
Ultimately ,Russell sounds like someone you could have an entertaining night with down at the bar throwing back a few whisky's. He's definitely got some good tales to tell. And that fighting spirit is still alight after all these years. (8/10)
The inital intrigue with Echobrain is the Jason Newstead connection. The departure of the bassist formerly of Metallica sent shockwaves through a dedicated fanbase that thought the metal-loving quartet would be head-banging as a solid unit until their heads fell clean off. The man with the best facial snarls and grimaces in rock has clearly gone bonkers! Who is their right mind would leave such a gigantic, successful and worshipped rock outfit? The answer: the one that wants to explore new avenues and release one of the early contenders for the best rock record of 2002.
It is a charming path that brought Newstead to embrace a sound that rests somewhere between the the strident metal of Soundgarden, the pharmaceutical haziness of Queens Of The Stone Age and the emotive experimentation a-la Radiohead. It was through a mutual friend that Newstead came across an enthusiastic 16-year-old funk/jazz drummer called Brian Sagrefena at a Super Bowl Party. When he heard Sagrafena doing some chops during a jam he knew he had found an unexpected, young talent. The flabbergasted drummer was invited to Newstead's studio to where he brought along his gifted best mate Dylan Donkin. A kid with an extraordinary voice and flair for guitar-playing, Dylan shone in front of a surprised Newstead, proving not to be just a youthful cheeky chancer. It wasn't long before Echobrain were formed. And thank-christ it was.
'Echobrain' is so deep and intriguing, full of texture and cool, that is completely stuns upon first listen. For a start the fantastically monikered Dylan Donkin is a star. His vocal dynamics can be as powerful as Chris Connell's and as versatile as Jeff Buckely's. It is rare that a voice can suit so many different genres all at once, but Donkin's sounds ideal whether Echobrain are playing hard-rock, pop, acoustic or just being completely eccentric. He can belt it out in a grand, stadium-rock style like on the rock-star-ego bashing 'Colder World' or warble beautifully like on the dark and brooding 'We Are Ghosts'. He is an engaging, striking young talent that should be watched closely.
Yet such a great voice would be very lonely without the talents of Newstead and Sagrefena contributing everything from stabbing primal riffage to dreamy psychedelica (both on 'Suckerpunch', for example). The drumming is often irregular bringing Sagrefena's love of funk to the forefront and the bass and guitar often weaves soupy psychedelic patterns. A glorious sense of melody flows throughout the whole album, rising to thrilling heights on a song called 'Highway 44' about a truck-driving Elvis impersonator and the Soundgarden/ Pearl Jam-lite 'Spoonfed' which attacks televangelists out for a quick dollar. There really isn't a dull moment.
The lyrics, vocals and ideas are all intriguing and often wonderful. Time to stop playing that 'Enter Sandman' bassline then. Newstead's got ten new gems waiting for you. (8/10)
Review by guest contributor - Wes Finch
In a decade known for its prominence of synthesisers and absence of real drums, The Alarm stayed true to the rock band formula and made a huge name for themselves internationally with the seven albums they made. They are, whether you, the 'phonics or the Manics like to admit it, the dons of the Welsh rock scene. Singing in Welsh and English long before Gorky's and the Super Furries and having been supported by the likes of Catatonia and the Stereophonics in the past as well as selling in excess of 5 million albums, proves some of their status as the Big Daddies of Welsh rock. They are also able to boast having shared a stage with Dylan to perform 'Knockin' On Heaven Doors' twice in '87 and had a curious Neil Young join them in New York for 'Rockin In The Free World' in '89. They also have a loyal following on both sides of the Atlantic, enough to perform the first MTV global satellite concert, some lengthy sold out tours and an annual get-together in Wales called 'The Gathering' which has just happened for the 10th year running. It is a following loyal enough to warrant the adventurous post break-up activity that this collection is a part of.
The original line-up split in June 1991 but this hasn't stopped founder Mike Peters keeping the dedicated happy with something to shell out for. He has just undergone a 13-date acoustic tour of storytelling, reminiscing and solo performing across the UK, which ended with an all star band consisting of James Stevenson of The Cult, Steve Grantely from Stiff Little Fingers and Richard Llewellyn from Gorky's Zygotic Mynci performing two shows in Cardiff and London. Each show was started off by a 22-song Alarm DVD just to re-familiarise yourself with the good old days.
As if that wasn't enough, Mike Peters has remastered each of the seven albums for a re-release and in unprecedented style (if you're willing to spend the full £100 on a 9 CD collection of back catelogue material), Mike will individually record The Alarm song of your choice on a bonus CD. That'll sort the die-hard fans from the cynics.
This collection has a range of singles, demos, unreleased and live tracks. It shows the group to be a solid rock band capable of writing and performing strong, emotional and respectable tunes. At the beginning of 'Knockin On Heaven's Door' live in Boston, Peters boasts how he taught Bono how to play the song on their tour together in 1983. Harmonica solos abound in plenty and you could be forgiven for thinking you were listening to U2 in a few places. It is a collection from 1981-1991 and is very obviously from that decade in much of its production and style. A new original album is promised for 2002 and must surely be the way forward after so much looking back. A new album is perhaps the way to get a younger and new audience interested and turned on to the back catalogue. If you truly love the songs on this album you have probably heard them before and either have them or have lost them somewhere over the last ten years. If you are going to bring out the old, I say make sure it is with the new too. (6/10)
Review by guest contributor - Wes Finch
South Carolina cousins John Crooke and Dave Burris wrote and produced this five-piece's fourth album. Recorded in a mere 13 days in their home state, the record is a polished mix of guitars and organs and proves a competence you'd expect from a band's fourth LP. However, there are three letters that you're going to hear in every conversation or review about Jolene and they are R, E and M.
The story goes that whilst retrieving a strayed basketball from a garbage dumpster, frontman Crooke, as yet unaware of the rising Georgia's band's existence, found a tape of 'Fables Of The Reconstruction' inside (shame on whoever chucked it away!). Crooke was blown away by the "lazy, fierce and moving" sounds and was converted from sport to rock and roll within the month. Well, it seems something of it rubbed off on him more than anything else he's come across. On 'The Pretty Dive', the twang and drawl of his vocal bears an uncanny resemblance to Stipe's on opener 'Genius Genius' and 'Shiny Tongue', and yes, most of the other songs too. With the voice breaking in all the right places and soaring through familiar melodies, it doesn't help things that Burris and co.'s backing borrows heavily from patent tempos and chord progressions of their major inspiring influence.
Lyrically, Jolene are less ambiguous and more honest, with some songs having obvious personal cathartic value for the writers. Tunes like 'Break' and the short and sweet acoustic 'Cheap Day Nocturne' show some different less gothic approaches, and 'New Refrain Detritus' rolls along folkily, fading in and out at the end.
Not having much about them (other than being hopelessly REM fixated) that appears unique may be a hinderance commerically but intense live performances may be the thing that builds their fan base and keeps them playing and producing well made records. With eight dates lined up in the country before Christmas, and all for under a tenner, it may be worth going along to a gig to hear more, before you decide you have heard it all before. (6/10)
Initially it was the fashion photo that got our attention. You know, the curious shot of the handsome long-haired guy with blood pouring from his nose? Dave Grohl said it was the sexiest picture he has ever seen of a man. Apparently to achieve authenticity, Mr. WK smashed a brick into his face, but upon failure, resorted to fake blood. Or so the story goes.
Then came the extraordinary single 'Party Hard'. What the hell is it? Bon Jovi gone speed? Abba on crack? Kiss with a rocket up their arses? It thunders along at an exhilirating pace, irresistibly melodic and sounding enormous with state-of-the-art production. It sounds like how every party in the world should end up, raging with gleeful, authority-defying anarchy. And you imagine a party thrown by Andrew WK would involve puking, moshing, tonnes of alcohol and furious shagging, with the stereo blasting out 'I Get Wet' again and again.
What we have here is disappointing at first. Basically we have 'Party Hard' twelve times. Yet when the subtle differences become noticable you know this one-dimensional affair is like no other. There is no let up in speed or power, no room for a breather, no compromise for diversity's sake. Hence we have three tracks with the word 'party' in it, all hedonistic frantic blasts or brilliance that cannot emphasise the importance of having fun enough. And rightly so.
Don't come here looking to be challenged intellectually either, the aim is to musically assault, get you dancing and screaming, then game over. The lyrics are a little dubious at times, even a little old-fashioned in sentiment during 'Girl's Own Love' when he hollers "You've got to make her understand/ That you are the man". 'Got To Do It' is about picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and then achieving your ambitions. It is eighties cheese dragged into the present day and made absolutely vital.
With his music having as much muscle as the man himself, Andrew WK looks set to make everybody as wet as he is before the end of the year. Blood, guts, vision and tunes, there surely can be no stopping him. Stand by to party like you never have before. (8/10)
Well, this is good timing. German metallers Sodom have returned from who knows where belatedly angry about the Vietnam War that raged in the sixties and early seventies. They have found that 'M 16' is released just as another war has got underway in the primitive country of Afghanistan. So the terror, brutality and genocide that they describe across these identical sounding tracks is particularly relevant and poignant at the moment.
Well, they would be if expressed by someone other than Sodom. You see it is all very difficult to take seriously when every song sounds like a straight-laced Cradle Of Flith with no sense of humour or irony. A strangulated voice squawks tirelessly over each thrash-metal number, bass rumbling and drums furiously pounding, going nowhere in particular. They seem inspired and shocked at their recent findings about the horrors of Vietnam and of the American actions during that period. Yet when it sounds so dated and cliched, who really wants to listen?
'Genocide' has a mad guitar solo (like, wow, man), 'Napalm In The Morning' sounds about as scary as Rice Crispies crackling and the title of 'I Am The War' says it all really. There are even pictures of these buffoons dressed in army combat dress outfits and the cover sleeve depicts a monster carrying a skeleton away from the scene. Hmm, tasteful.
So they like playing-dress ups and waxing lyrical about fighting. How heavy metal. How entirely devoid of anything music needs to be right now. (2/10)
Incubus are a dream come true, surely? Whilst we have been suffering the 'Bizkit's and the 'Roach's for far too long, here we have a better prospect - a band who have soul, maaan. Indeed, Incubus sing about love and nature and everything that is right with the world rather than everything that is wrong with it. They have a singer who is a part-time model, a tanned Californian dream-hunk with piercings. Their music combines funk and heavy-rock, much like Red Hot Chilli Peppers. And the metal masses love them for being the band they can cry to without feeling ashamed.
Except, unfortunately, Incubus aren't quite as good as they sound. They are drippy-hippies that are certainly in touch with their sensitive side, but fail to say anything particular emotional or intelligent. Considering this is their main selling point, this is very disappointing. They dress slightly more tribal than their comtemporaries but are extremely unconvincing when backing this up with weak Eastern flavourings on tracks like 'Aqueous Transmission'. Ultamitely they end up sounding like they want to be something they aren't.
They sing about pretending to be weightless and missing loved ones, which might be sweet and soppy, but the sentimentality gets unbearable and somehow smug. It's about as deep as ditch water. Things improve when they step away from their irritating dreamy-loud-dreamy-loud formula that decorated their previous and slightly superior 'Make Yourself' record. 'Just A Phase' shows off what Brandon Boyd can do with his voice when he isn't attempting wild histrionics and '11am' glides along like a refreshing breeze.
The rest of it is just forgettable or annoying. Their flair for funk that made their debut S.C.I.E.N.C.E debut so exciting is gone and the absence of ideas on 'Morning View' is glaringly obvious. The positive alternative to nu-metal? Don't come looking here rockers. (5/10)
Shit-throwing, dead-crow sniffing, bondage mask-wearing, vicious and violent-minded Slipknot, eh? Nine unhinged and occasionally dangerous fiends from a place called Iowa. Tormented and alienated, with mental and emotional wounds scarred deep in their souls, they have taken to the metal world as quite an extreme. What is left to say about the gloriously misanthropic, religious-baiting, authority-hating, most gruesome boy-band on Earth?
Well, quite a lot actually. When Slipknot really started to infiltrate the conciousness, they did so through their astonishing pantomine-from-hell costumes and some powerful interviews. They showed that they were sick and hateful enough to really represent the frustration and anger that the disenfrancised and bullied people feel, to provide a sort of twisted hope through exorcising their demons onstage and on record. So committed they were to embracing the good people and sticking nine middle fingers in the face of those in society that beat the rest down, they were prepared to bleed, vomit, scream and rock without worrying about any physical damage to themselves. They wanted to put everything on the line, nothing mattered but the music. The only thing that let them down was a rather mediocre second album.
The cynical have sneered and pointed accusingly, dismissing the masked crusaders as being a bigger marketting plot than Westlife, Blue and A1 put together. Slipknot merely use the criticisms as fuel for their fire, and it is evident in abundance on this devastatingly heavy, absolutely furious new record. At times you find yourself aghast at the mental state of the band, the venom spitting out of the lyrics, the music relentlessly thunderous, the rage always at boiling point. What takes you back the most is that it almost sounds subhuman, Corey's vocals sounding like they could be spewing from a monster from outer space. The cymbals, the thrashing percussion and the frequent agonising screams that are dotted across 'Iowa' smash down with the effect of a ten ton hammer.
Although frighteningly immense, it does not escape the pit-fall that befalls so many metal albums, the cime of embarrassing self-indulgence. Whilst the majority of 'Iowa' convinces with heaps of blood and guts, the likes of 'I Am Hated' and 'New Abortion' are so self-centred and infantile that it's cringeworthy. Whilst the musical black metal influence might be intentional, it's comedy value probably wasn't, lyrics like "I wanna slit your throat and fuck the wound" immature and cliched. Thankfully the drawbacks are sparse. Elsewhere we have the towering 'Disasterpiece', the nusery-rhyme of Satan that is 'The Heretic Anthem' ("If you're 555, I'm 666") and the skull-crunching howl of 'People=shit'. They have got heavier and interestingly more melodic with it. 'Everything Ends' is fantastic, a catchy tale of sadness, Corey roaring "I haven't slept since I woke up and found my life was a lie motherfucker". First single 'Slipping Away' is a pop song smashed, strangled and reconstructed using the sharpest of tools. Closing this barrage is the unexpected fifteen minute 'Iowa', a sinister combination of post-rock creepiness and atmospherics. Chilling whisperings flutter over rumbling bass and a murky, hypnotic guitar. It is a totally new spin on the Slipknot sound, proving they realise scary music doesn't have to be all heavy guitar and primal yowls.
So Slipknot have made the album that defines them, that they always wanted and perhaps needed to make. They might be driven by the things that torment them, but they are equally interested in reaching out to their maggots (their affectionate term for their fans). With this album they show wisdom and positivity as well as rallying against everything they hate. For a band so pained, they really do care a lot. (8/10)
Somewhat of an ironic title if ever there was one, because Garbage have just produced their most desperate and defeated album yet. Normally renouned for being a huge band but nobody's favourite, Shirley Manson and her crew have something to prove after the career-peaking surge of melody and heartbreak that was 'Version 2.0'.
You can imagine Manson insisting that she has only her own expectations to live up to, and if not, this certainly sounds like a very cold and isolating experience. Gone are the adrenaline rushes of 'Push It' and the crunchy muscle of 'I Think I'm Paranoid'. Shirley sounds like a completely different person here (and looks like one since she appears to now share the same designer friends as Anne Robinson), her trademark bite replaced by a depressed reflectiveness. At other times she sounds like Victoria Beckham.
It is a disjointed and frustrating listen. Opener 'Shut Your Mouth' is astonishingly nondescript, before the single 'Androgyny' plods along with a vague electro pulse before bursting into a chorus that could have nestled in comfortably on their gothy debut. It is the third track that is the most telling however, Shirley sounding destroyed and confused. "I just don't care anymore/ I've reached the end of the road" she shouts over an alarmingly manic collision of sleighbells and drums. A song about recovering from being torn to shreds by the destruction of a relationship, it sounds more like a swansong than a rallying of strength. It is actually quite disturbing in a morbidly attractive way.
So what, you might say, Garbage seem deflated and have made an album that reflects that mood. But the issue is that it sounds like there is an identity crisis going on. The lyrics are darker than ever and the tension in the tracks is high, fair enough, but the ideas seem limited, coming over like the last throw of the dice.
Things improve sporadically, mainly on the pop-tastic 'Cherry Dance (Go Baby Go)' even if Manson sounds like she has been at the helium. It plays the androgyny card again ("Whenever you came near the clouds would disappear/ Because you looked just like a girl") and sounds like a Christmas song about a transexual. Like I say, this album is incredibly random, though not entirely without it's moments. Later, 'So Like A Rose' brings things to its logical conclusion, being a crushed and sombre tale of miserablism.
Now there is nothing wrong with a varied and eccentric album, but 'Beautiful Garbage' seems to lack purpose or vision. Like many early reports suggested, it is difficult to determine whether this is due to an overdose of ideas that were not articulated very well or simply that they didn't have any at all. I conclude the latter. Garbage sound sad and hurt throughout 'Beautiful Garbage'. It's difficult not to feel the same. (6/10)
Known as one of metal's more eccentric and amusing ourfits with their crazee make-up and playful dynamics, System Of A Down have so far promised much but have been guilty of putting style before substance. Known for messing with the preconceptions of the moshers by incorporating folk-eastern styling's into their entertaining but random debut n and bringing the spiky fury of old-school punk to the mosh-pit, their output so far has only hinted at the true capabilities of the Armenian quartet. Now they have delivered a powerful and bitter social commentary with the venom of Asian Dub Foundation. It is very welcome.
Vitially, it disassociates itself from nu-metal with a commitment to dealing with social injustices and tragedies rather than tedious self-pitying. In fact, they owe more to the punk spirit of The Dead Kennedy's and the stabbing riffage of prime Faith No More than say, Papa Roach. Topics of concern include the American penitentiary system ('Prison Song'), the brutality of the police ('Deer Dance'), junkies ('Needles') and even fucking ('Bounce'). They rally against corruptino and greed, but build up to a more generalised attack on public selfishness on 'Shimmy' - "I think me/ I want life/ I think me/ I want a house and a wife". It is metal with a throbbing heratbeat, that maks you think, that sounds real.
System play fast and weave patterns with thrilling nerve, stopping and starting, switching more primal heaviness to intricate prettiness. In comparison to the debut, the melodic bits have got more melodic and the heaviness more heavy. Yet the band are tighter and more consistent this time, knowing when to ease off the grind and when to thrust forward better.
So far so Rage Against The Machine. Though where Rage were a political canon that never cracked a smile, System Of A Down have too much nervous and uncontainable energy to not get sill every now and then. A dumb voice here, a goofy lyric there, and the deceptive changes in pace and flow in certain songs show that it isn't all grin reality and frowns in the camp. Crucially, 'Toxicity' contains enough wit and hyperactive madness to avoid the realms of pretentiousness.
More than anything, System have proved that metal is still capable of being relevant, active and refreshing. Battling against an obsession with hip-hop beats and pseudo-angst, System show that traditional heavy guitar is still more than an apt way of expressing important discontent with the world. (8/10)
Utajarvi is not a place many are familar with but this unrecognised village in Finland has been harbouring one of music's best kept secrets. Throughout their two decade existance, 22-Pistepirkko have covered many bases, from rock to twisted psychedelica to trip-hop, but escaped the attention of most. With 'Rally of Love' they have turned their creative powers to a certain skewed, refreshing pop sound that oozes genius, combining delicate electronic soundscapes with strident, traditional instruments.
It's an album that is brimming with fresh and visionary ideas, if overall sounding slightly too polished. 'I'm A Moon Around You' begins like a glittering, sweet Sixties pop classic and then gracefully melts into ambient drum 'n' bass, recalling Radiohead's 'Idiotechque'. It changes course and shape so naturally but the random idea and the challenge it must have presented makes you admire the beauty of it even further. 'This Time' again decieves you at the opening, plodding in like The Cardigans but then side-stepping into an enormous bang of a pop chorus that S Club 7 would happily consider as their next weapon.
Elsewhere, the trio are less futuristic, opting to concentrate on tried and tested sounds such as the trusty acoustic guitar. Yet when delving into the simpler sounds they pack them with such emotion, 'Bloodstopper' showing our many acoustic-loving indie-boys how affecting crestfallen music can be. The trip-hop of 'D-Day' has been dealt with by Massive Attack before but the band have added their own narcotic, claustrophobic combination to the Bristol formula. Eerie and unnerving the drummer mumbles creepily over enchanting beats.
Revealing a sadness that underlies most of 'Rally Of Love' is opener 'Quicksand', an unhealthy but oddly charming tale of a relationship of self-harm and insecurity. Similarly, the gorgeous 'Car Wash' with it's pulsing electronic heart sweeps into a chorus of part-fragilty, part-sunshine. "Water is pouring down washing the dirt/ One little moment when nothing can hurt". Seeking a refuge from the painful events, "I'm in the eye of the hurricane where nothing can hurt", it is a touching and affecting disfigurement of pop.
'Rally Of Love' has hooks and melodies to die for, some sugar-coated and others razor-sharp, some cold and then warm. It's time for 22-Pistepirkko to move out of the village and into the city. (8/10)
Arriving on the back on a wave of hype that has almost had a vibe of desperation about it, The Strokes should have had their work cut out from the beginning. Yet the surest sign that we have a sparkling new something from the gritty underground rock-garage scene is that all the fuss about these five good-looking, well-dressed, retro kids has been made by other sources. The band themselves have taken it in their stride, shrugging off the accolades, not arrogantly or unappreciately, just prepared to let their music do the talking. More importantly, they are aware of the pit-falls of hype. No fan-fare of self-importance, just the arrival of a great debut album, the only sign of self-confidence the title - 'This Is It'.
So far their reputation has preceded them and threated to cause disappointment and ridicule amongst a curious but potentially cynical public who have seen this sort of hyping before - Terris anyone? But the two singles 'A Modern Age' and 'Hard To Explain' have both been stunning indicators that a talented new force are leading a charge of New York cool. Then there has been the virtually orgasmic frothings from excited and inspired British journalists who have thrust Julian Casablancas (vocals), Nick Valensi (guitar), Albert Hammond Jr (guitar), Nikolai Fraiture (bass) and Fab Moretti (drums) onto the covers before most have even heard them, making them sexy and mysterious. Most recent of all was the honour of being upgraded from The Evening Session Tent at Reading to the Main Stage, leaving bands as big as Ash wondering why aren't causing enough excitement merely by headlining. Now comes the real test. The album.
Initially, things do not penetrate the ears with the rude force that you were expecting. Yet opener 'This Is It' greets preconceptions warmly, Casablancas voice immediately reminding of a young Lou Reed, slightly drawling over the steady pace of bright guitar. Accelerating the speed is 'A Modern Age', its glorious Velvet Underground-lite melody pulsing through attractive verse before launching into a rocking chorus. It even contains a wicked solo just before Julian gets back to singing like he is on fire, like the coolest indie-boy on the block, on any block. It has an uncompromising, irresistable hook, building up to a driving, assertive chorus that is truly classic. Keeping it strident, New York City Cops' begins with wild feedback before rioting into some old-school punk reminiscent of Iggy Pop. The chorus is violent and thrashy, "New York city cops, ain't too smart!".
These four gems clearly show what an awesome proposition The Strokes are. The rest of 'This Is It' fails to sound as vibrant of as refreshing but is still damn good. There is nothing particuarly complex or innovative about 'Barely Legal' or the brilliant 'Soma', but the urgency and the faith that burns within the heart of each song, combined with some neat guitar riffage and Csablanca's tales of New York love and hate, is affirming and exciting.
Some of it is downright retro, but then that is their thing. Velvet Underground with an acid tongue. It's like all the boring Dadrock throwback bands we had to endure at the end of the Nineties have forced the Strokes to step forward and show how retro music can be original and vital. It feels like we have almost gone full circle. In short, this is definitely it. (8/10)
Whatever we think of nu-metal, it was responsible for murdering the American grunge hangover, and for that we should be thankful. The proliferation of new heavy guitar bands has rooted out those desperately clinging onto the shirt-ends of Nirvana and exposed them as Seattle scene parasites. Yet curiously, the coffin of grunge seems to have floated back ashore and Staind have sprung out determined to be The Second Coming.
It seems somewhat ironic that Fred Durst, the man responsible for slaying the floundering wannabe part-timers of grunge has helped sign Massachuets depressives Staind to Flip Records. As a business venture it proved wise as 'Dysfunction', the bands second album, sold in excess of a million units, and 'Break The Cycle' has rooted itself in the top five of the Billboard album chart for the past eleven weeks. A definite money-spinner then, but at what price? Has Mr. Durst betrayed us all?
Staind produce music that Alice In Chains was crafting ten years ago but without any regard for innovation or development. They play it safe, wallowing gloomily in gut-wrenching angst, whilst the music plods along blandly, darkening the mood to pitch black. Clearly, singer Aaron Lewis is a troubled man, tormented by personal anguish and addiction issues, but rather than summoning your empathy and sympathy, you end up wanting to slap him for his indulgence.
Things reach their disspirited peak on 'Epiphany' when Lewis admits "It's always raining in my head". It is one of the few tracks that truly makes you feel sorry and sad, the acoustic guitar and keyboards floating behind Lewis' undeniably strong voice. If little else Lewis is brutally honest about his troubles and occassionally comments on society as well, perhaps sounding a little hollow, "overpopulation, there's no room in jail, and most of you don't give a shit". Next single 'It's Been Awhile' is a confessional attempt to make amends for his difficulties, sounding like it could be dedicated to a loved one, "it's been a while since I said I'm sorry", he says guiltily. Another success at turning the sadness into beauty is 'Outside', a track with gorgeous dynamics and a typically maudlin but powerful chorus. Spoiling things somewhat is the live rendition where Fred Durst pops up to yell nonsense like "Man, I'm feeling those lighters". Ok, then.
The rest sounds too saturated with misery to see past its own limitations. No doubt it will find comfort and success with a prozac generation, but the irrelevance of this music is bigger than any million sales mark. (5/10)
One of the most striking things about The White Stripes is how charming they are as a band. They summon affection inside you whether it be for the cute way in which they dress, their superb music or their moral commitments. You can be bothered to get to know their material properly. Everything about them screams vitality, relevance and necessity. The Stripes are damn exciting and you need to hear them.
So the smaller visual aesthetics for starters, the sweet but bold way in which they are attired. Never seen in any outfit that deviates from the colours red and white (they even smoke Embassy cigarettes because the packet conforms to these demands), they look startling and fresh, making so little effort yet being so conscious of it at the same time. Then there is the intially dubious brother-sister relationship of Jack and Meg White. Having a band consisting of a familial bond does not sound particularly adventurous or dangerous, but judging by the sound they make, the look they radiate and the impact they are making, it seems like a solid partnership that is perfect for achievement. Aw, like they keep it all in the family! Then the endearment that they are encouraging the spotlight and attention of the music world to a particular city - Detroit. From the indie-scene of Manchester to the gritty grunge scene of rainy Seattle, we all love to feel affection for a city due to its musical climate. Even if we have never been there, we feel like we have. Sod Kid Rock and his Detriot upbringing, The White Stripes are paving the way for the rock-garage underground, bands like the Von Bondies and The Dirtbombs are getting exposure. They are doing for Detroit what The Strokes are doing for New York. And we love it.
Ok, so you aren't convinced yet. Smart clothes, twee band member set-up and how many times have we been told somewhere is the new Seattle? The second greatest thing about The White Stripes will eventually rectify, or at least, suspend your cynicism. The music. There is no case of little substance and only hype here. When the music kicks in and makes you want to dance you will feel something special is happening. The Stripes' blues-garage makes you want to dance to rock 'n' roll again, it feels vital, and you imagine it makes you shake just like it did when the first rock bands emerged in teh Fifties, giving people a feeling of a certain freedom. All this done by just the two of them.
'White Blood Cells' is the Stripes third album and is a party from start to finish, one with lots of loving, dancing and confusion. Try the hillbilly stomp of 'Hotel Yorba' and see if it fails to make you move with a manic swing when Jack announces he has "moving on my mind". The infectious chorus is an after-hour bar hoe-down and is absolutely brilliant. Equally frantic is the raw seventies punk of 'Fell In Love With A Girl'. Catchy and acerbic, it is 'Hotel Yorba' only harder and faster. When they rock-out, it is a blast.
Refreshingly, they have some decent morals as well. On 'I Think I Smell A Rat', a a simple but raging attack on corporate bullshit, Jack condemns any youth that has lost respect; "Treating your mother and father like a welcome mat". 'Little Room' berates any rock-stars whose head has got bigger than his guitar, encouraging them to think about what it should all be about and where they got started. It ain't preaching though, just social and personal comment, Jack admitting on 'I'm Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman These Days' that life takes its strain on us all. It is somewhat uplifting and encouraging to hear a band singing about respect and manners when so many successful bands trade in misogyny and homophobia, with little time for anyone else or even themselves.
The music itself is equally profound. The instrumental 'Aluminium' is a Led Zeppelin affair, all psychedelic and trippy guitar whilst 'The Union Forever' impresses with a dreamy, gorgeous backdrop. Covering all bases from folk ('We're Going To Be Friends') to punk ('Fell In Love With A Girl'), via garage and all out rock, 'White Blood Cells' could have easily have been incoherent. It is the Sixties blues influence that runs throughout that ties all the ends up and gives it a feeling of one, something wholesome.
First The Strokes and now The White Stripes, is seems American rock 'n' rule will be invading again pretty soon. Lets hope they keep the guitars blazing. (8/10)
Now Feeder might be renouned for being one-dimensional with their quiet-loud-quiet formula and their bizzare choice in lyrics, but these days they shift units. So the time must seem appropiate for a reissue of the six-track mini-album they released when they did generic grunge rather than generic indie. With six b-sides added to the collection, here is a chance to hear what Feeder sounded like when they had to play toilet venues instead of Brixton Academy.
You wonder really what the point is other than some extra cash because this serves only to drearily expose Feeder as being the unsuccessful Bush in their early years. Having to hike all the way to the States to peddle their polite post-grunge, it was all ridiculous fake American accents for singer Grant Nicholas and uninspiring sequences of chord changes for the rest. It didn't work over there and it didn't work here.
So during a time when nu-metal was a mere rumble in the distance and Britrock was being sneered at for being the home of Terrorvision and Reef, Feeder found themselves touring their arses off, desperately trying to show their earnest and sentimental music was more than mere Smashing Pumpkins cast-offs. The dreamy 'Descent' never helped matters, with it's sense of yearning that the Pumpkins so excelled at getting lost beneath the bland guitar. A thunderous 'Stereo World' might have left bruises but it never quite hurt enough. More impressive was 'Swim' which was typical grunge self-pitying but still sweet nonetheless. In short, Feeder were the MTV friendly post-grunge band that couldn't get onto MTV.
With a few unremarkable b-sides filling out this pointless rehash, you feel that Feeder must be glad they ditched the target t-shirts in favour of more snappy indie-outfits, swopping the early-nineties music for mid-nineties. It paid off. Great, eh? (4/10)
Both DJ and composer, Virtuart can turn his hand to anything. Whether it be the inspiration of "boiling bubbles in a kettle" or the crazy days of the 1988 Summer Of Love, the fuel that fires this Frenchman are often responsible for some sublime sounds. Having achieved success through a number of different guises, including his masterminding of the 'Techno For Tibet' compilation and his chart success with 'Tetragremation'/ 'Time Cruncher', the time has arrived for a double onslaught of two extremes.
Unfortunately I have yet to hear the screaming techno and trance release titled 'Drekhar' which is due out the same day as 'Drumz, Bass and Double Cream'. However, this collection of ambient drum 'n' bass certainly stokes up the appetite. Perhaps rather like Roni Size on a day when he kicks back and relaxes, this chilled-out mesh of fast beats and soaring electronica is designed to make you float, to calm yourself before or after one of his more manic attacks.
Easy-listening dance is not something to shout praise about, but the aim of Virtuart here seems to be to raise the quality of music in the chill-out room, attempting to put some originality in those moments between glo-stick delerium and dancefloor fever. Though if you come across this in the more soothing corners of a club, you may be so overcome by the lush waves of ambience you will refuse to join your pilled-up pals.
...And relax... (8/10)
This record took almost five years to make and the tension surrounding its release is immense. Cited as one of the most influential and popular rock acts of the Nineties, everyone from the nu-metallers to the big-haired poodle rockers speak volumes about Tool and their mysterious music. They are certainly alternative anyway, 'Laterus' clocking in at 76 minutes, containing no verses, choruses and virtually no distinction between tracks, yet still they blast Missy Elliot off the top of the billboard chart in America.
What makes Tool's success all the more astounding is their reluctance to communicate with their fans. As if their prog-rock, difficult records weren't hard-work enough, they refuse to take part in their videos, making gruesome short-films instead, and interviews are golden but rare. Since 1996's 'Aniema', frontman Keenan has been singing for side-project A Perfect Circle, a band more melodic and accessible, but equally atmospheric. Considering 'Mer De Noms', A Perfect Circle's superb debut, was far superior to tool's previous two works of ultra-intensity, the expectation for 'Laterus' is huge.
Typically, they care not. A Perfect Circle appears to have had no influence on this uncompromising and admirable record. Extremely complex and layered, it requires around ten listens before it even starts to make sense. The vibe is spiritual, dark, brooding and paranoid. Waves of delicate guitar weave in and out of loud, grunge explosiveness, sometimes beautiful, sometimes unlistenable. The songs cover topics such as dying, crawling, creation and unworldly creatures. It is a troubled record by troubled minds.
'The Grudge' begins the record and is dense and unnerving. Setting the tone for the grimy eeriness that pervades throughout, you constantly feel something must happen during the course of 'Laterus'. A crescendo must be reached. Yet it never does because this is all about anticapation, waiting, fear and suspense. The longing builds in curel surges yet no conclusions get reached. It seems never ending. Keenan mumbles like someone enduring troubled sleep, the heaviness burning beneath, whether it be the bold guitar chords of the intricate noodling. Music for magic spells, almost. Pretentious as fuck, for everything to like about 'Laterus' there is something to dislike, but Tool have giant charm when at their most creative.
Sounds like a nightmare, doesn't it? But it seems to be intentional that it is like one long soundtrack to a bad dream, dark and often evil sounding. I always suspected they were closet clever goths. (7/10)
More like cool, sparkling water music. Armstrong's follow-up to the more electronic 'Sprinkler' is all mellow, ambient soundscapes, if a little gritty in places.
It seems the Danish five-piece are heavily influenced by 1995-era Bristol trip-hop, using the unnerving, dark atmospherics of Massive Attack and the understated industrial noises that Tricky can bend and shape so effortlessly. Much like Alpha's recent effort, the results are chilled and soothing, but lacking in originality.
Most striking is the claustrophobic, urban 'Caught In My Own Light', that shakes and shimmers with dirty paranoia. Boosted by the help of the Prague Philharmonic Orchestra, the strings recall, bizarrely such ghetto ugliness like Wu-Tang's 'Chamber Music'. Elsewhere the mood is lighter, aside from the occassional bite on the rock-beats of single 'Everyone Is A Poet These Days'. Subtle and seductive, 'Staggered Heel' has an alluring repressed sexiness having much in common with the repetitious, sparkling '86 Heat'. The album becomes more hypnotic as it progresses, 'Cold Running Water' sounds almost hymn-like.
With music of this type there is a danger of crossing the very thin divide seperating blandness and chilled euphoria. Armstrong's beats could bore you into a coma at times, the attention alerted when they get back on track with frequent sections of vitality shaking things up.
Trip-hop was a good idea until it became too close to lounge and lift music and had to self-destruct and be discarded. Armstrong have made a valiant attempt at ressurrection, but fall victim to the cliche's of a cliched genre. (6/10)
Geeks have always been an easy target, it may be immoral, but it is so. Taking things to a point way beyond irony however, are Weezer. They have always been the nerd-rock outfit that pretty much strap themselves to the dart board, with supersonic fireworks between their legs and practically beg you to take sharp aim. Narrow those eyes and consider the reasons there are to dislike these most awkward of musicians.
The main problem is that Weezer are partly responsible for the travesty that is Wheatus. From the comedy glasses to the inoffensive grunge, Wheatus are modelled on the band responsible for the unmistakably catchy 'Buddy Holly' and 'The Sweater Song (Come Undone)'. They are unlikely to get chicks, make deeply unfashionable music, yet turn it into a fashion statement of sorts itself. It's kooky and all terribly embarrassing.
Then of course there is the inoffensive nature of the tunes. Hating a Weezer song is just as difficult as loving it, those harmony's so infectious they dig into the brain and set up boot camp. They sound like The Beach Boys jogging merrily along the shores with red polka dot pants on their heads before being clobbered by Kurt Cobain with his grunge guitar. They sound exactly like this on EVERY tune they have penned, occassionally flashing signs of pop genius (the highlights of 'Pinkerton'), but generally they are a repetitive, one-trick pony.
'The Green Album' offers no alarms and certainly no surprises. Clocking in at at a concise thirty minutes, it bumbles along pleasantly, each number drenched in breezy AOR hooks, never straying from the formula of shimmering harmonys backed with razor, crunchy grunge. 'Crab' is geek-rock choking on hormones with its childish jokes but beams with radiance such is the pretty melody. Rivers Combo gets deeper on 'I Do', the only track to deviate from the beaten Beach Boys Do Metal plan. The pianos tinkle with maudlin longing, offering a glimpse of what capabilities lie beneath Weezers obsession with submerging all efforts under grey, noisy guitar. Sure 'Simple Pages' is hummable and cute, Weezer songs are rarely anything but, yet the limited scope on offer here is hard to respect.
All they want to do is rock. Is that a crime? Certainly not, but if you are looking to be stimulated and challenged, Weezer are posing little to ponder over. (5/10)
The word 'jazz' strikes fear into the heart of the majority of the young. A little bit of Miles Davis we can bear, but when the likes of Mushroom threaten to give it an electro-psychedelic spin, we can only pray to the heavens to have mercy on our ears. Then when Faust comes into the equation, the brain hits all out panic.
As you would expect, Mushroom are hard-work, frustrating and annoying, toying randomly with uncoherent space-jazz and even industrial Indian. Yet as tough and demanding as their avant-garde approach to traditional jazz can be, their committment to innovation and invention is not only admirable, it often works to beautiful effect. 'Foxy Music' is sexy and funky, mixing rock-grooves with trippy vocals whilst 'I Had Some Dreams, They Were Clouds In My Coffee' combines sublime saxophone with cosmic snake guitar to produce a soulful, relaxing soundscape. It could be lounge, but never lift music.
The targetting of specific emotions is more noticable on 'Getting In Thun', an unnerving, paranoid, loop of church-bells set over a monsterous, rumbling keyboard effect. More light-hearted is the dancy, funk-out that is 'I Got Blisters On My Fingers', the Indian chimes talking to the feet rather than the ears.
The rest ranges from progressive jazz to Seventies psychedelica. Fantastic or irritating depending on your mood. And the mood of Mushroom is never predictable. (8/10)
Perhaps we should dispense with out justified tirades against dullard, generic nu-metal and focus on the superb wave of British metal flooding out around the country. From Camden's Breed 77 to Cardiff's Lost Prophets, via the monsterous Earthtone 9 and Miocene, aggressive talent is growing in stature on these shores. Joyfully it is more Pantera than Limp Bizkit.
Defenestration are arising with the er, New Wave of New Wave of British Heavy Metal. Fronted by a Barbie-metal looking teenager called Gen, the band are as brutal as Raging Speedhorn but as melodic as Breed 77. Gen is the key to the sound, her sweet voice laying sexily over 'Under Locks' before shattering into blood-curdling roars that could stand up against Tairrie B or Barney Napalm anyday. The spiralling, heavy-as-fuck riffage that lies underneath each track is admirably crunchy if not repetitive, but Gen's voice adds refreshing vitality to all.
At times the tracks blend almost indistiguishably into each other, but the bite and rage in each beast renders claims that 'One Inch God' is one-dimensional almost pointless. For this is the sound of young, angry, muscular young teens throwing back their heads, exercising some blood-letting and kicking back against the normal. It is dirty and bloody. So who wants variation and critical acceptance on a debut thrash-death-metal album? What is wanted is a bruising, genuine, heavy-as-hell steam-rolling experience. Defenestration have made something suitably noisy. What could be more healthy or pleasing than that?
It comes with the approval of Barney Napalm and gigantic, masters of British metal Raging Speedhorn. Both guest on 'One Inch God'. Who better than to scream out the demons with, eh? (Font Color="red"> (6/10)
You know that nu-metal is effortlessly achieving world domination when even crap pop acts like Bellefire enthusiastically declare that their debut album contains - jesus christ! - heavy guitars. It is the baggy-trousered, arse-crack displaying, frowning crossover-metallers responsible, like Linkin Park and Disturbed, who stab strings and scratch vinyl to such effect that people in backwards caps nod and shake their piercings appreciatively. No mistake, people utterly adore the nu-metal brigade.
Which begs the question 'why?', of course. The watered-down, fashionable septum-pierced face of metal allows the pop kids to be rebellious without being truly subversive, whilst hardened metallers can hum along with a strong melody without fear of being repeatedly cobbered repeatedly by baying Slayer fans. Or is it the angst that torments the members of these acts connecting with the demons of the lost and misguided youth? Is it an excuse to get all the tattoos you always wanted by never dared get because it was such an 'Iron Maiden' thing to do?
Yet all cynicism aside, you still wonder how much influence the music has when disappointments like 'Gift' arrive. With only Korn having truly impressed out of the clutch of nu-metallers thus far -and mind you, they only take what Faith No More and Rage Against the Machine started and turn it into something self-indulgent rather than revolutionary - an album is required to really justify the artistic relevance of these bands. Sure the sounds are listenable and popular - yes, 'pop' - but are they valid besides sales when compared to more innovative acts?
Sadly, Taproot help the cause little. They spend the duration of 'Gift' teasing the ears, pleasing with the odd shockwave of thunderous proper heavy bastard metal, then infuriating with pussy hip-hop tinged beats and subtle breathy gothic Korn-lite vocals. The guttaral and violent roars keep giving away to mainstream shagging groovy beats. It is like they sneak in the anarchy when they think no-one will be offended and go easy ont he brain when they will. And that will never do.
Ultamitely, Taproot cannot decide whether they want to be System Of A Down, Incubus or Korn. Frustrating and making the same errors as so many bands of their type do, Taproot seem ashamed to be their obviously unstylistic manic rocking motherfucking selves. What are they so afraid of? (5/10)
When a band promotes themselves by eagerly stressing they have "toured with everyone from Creed to Silverchair to Everclear", you know what a hideous record awaits the ears. Three very rich bands who have accumulated their success from nicking the worst parts of the fantastic early Nineties grunge-era are nobody to worship. Yet Nickleback do not just adore these clones, they want to be just like them.
Much like how Ocean Colour Scene can never get their heads out of the arse end of the Sixties, Nickleback eternally mourn the demise of the Seattle scene and its most miserable of grungers, Alice In Chains. Yet where Alice In Chains where wallowing but churning out tunes, these men sound like they are desperately trying to pass their melancoly and sadness as intellectual musings, whilst hoping no-one notices they are little more than an appalling tribute band. Of the entire album, only 'Leader Of Men' vaguely catches the attention and even that is bog-standard, emo-grunge that Chains wouldn't consider for a b-side. Godsmack have nothing on these guys.
These days everyone is jumping on the nu-metal bandwagon, which is irritating and sad, but not as intolerable or baffling as ripping off a scene that died almost ten years ago. You will know this band by the sound of men shagging a dead musical corpse. Ew. (1/10)
If you begin listening with the knowledge that Conor Oberst is a twenty-year-old, alternative folk musician, you would not be surprised that this is pretty angsty sounding. What you might find startling however, is the cynical wit that turns songs of lost love, suicide contemplation and drunken desolation into more than just relentless misery wallowing.
That Oberst is genuinely troubled and honest is undeniable and the lo-fi dischord that subtly underlies even the quietest moments of this outpouring of emotion adds edge and twisted melody to this reissue. Less grandious and polished than its follow-up 'Fevers And Mirrors', the grunge flavouring recalls Jeff Buckley's harder moments on 'Sketches'. 'The City Has Sex' is frantic rockabilly, the story of a lonely boy suffocated by his urban environment and sensitivity. More relaxed is 'June On The West Coast', a sweet and acoustic reflection on the paths that lay open before us. The theme of desire continues noticably on the muffled 'Pull My Hair'.
Bright Eyes can be hard-going, few people are as keen to be as brutally honest and direct as Oberst. Yet when style and electronics shape so much of our music currently, some unfashionable blood-letting is oddly heartening. (7/10)
The Wu-Tang Empire never ceases to produce innovative, genre-moulding, exciting hip-hop from the roughest areas of the neighbourhood. Shyheim, the Clan's youngest member is no exception and on this evidence, clearly had much input into the strings, samples and gritty depictions that were abundant on the recent 'The W' album.
Boundaries are even wider here, with Shyheim joining Missy Elliot in discovering the sublime uses of indian-flavoured backing tracks to underlie cut-throat, aggressive rappings. The Eastern-tinged, funky excellence of 'Unconditional Love' is proof alone that hip-hop just gets more progressive and exciting consistently. The hypnotic groove and repetitive sample on 'Furious Anger' is emphasised as much as the sharp word-play of guest Big L, an artists growing in stature from Rawkus. It is not all smoothness though, with 'Club Scene' and 'Am I my Brothers Keeper' giving the feet a work-out.
'Manchild' is both introspective and angry. Shyheim contemplates his relationship with his mother on 'Unconditional Love', but gets to grips with the inner-city dark-side on 'Twin Glocks'. Unafraid to explore and expand lyrically, the strength of 'Manchild' is its disregard for conventional hip-hop fronting. The guns and violence appear when relevant, but Shyheim is more concerned with his soul and honesty, rather than looking for peer assurance.
Surely Wu-International must take over the world soon? (8/10)
As the moniker suggests, Schizo Fun Addict inhabit a strange world. A place where imaginary doorways stand between whole new dimensions and a time far off in the future. In a disturbed land where secret societies battle to save the planet from the forces of evil, Schizo Fun Addict are providing an apt and distorted soundtrack. The crazy bunch.
So this bizzare accomplament may not be terribly accessible, anything Sonic Youth have attempted at late just isn't oddball enough for these experimental space-cadets, but it is admirably perverse and intriguing. We have twisted, vague melodies shaped from distortion, jazz-drenched hip-hop flavours and psychedelic, cosmo rock that allures you in, irritates you and then chuckles at your expense. The Addict mix together the unlistenable with the sublime consistently, changing direction at astonishing frequency, meaning the tempo of 'Diamond' never remains safe.
The one moment that anything feels complete comes in the form of 'Chakra Tease'. It throbs like a trance track should, disappears off momentarily on a jazz-tip, only for a voice to holler "Praise the beat" repeatedly, sounding as much gospel as rave MC. 'Stungun' might initially sound more simplistic as the chords sound from a piano, but the confused singing over the top creates a track of uncertainty and fragility. Collectively, 'Diamond' is so random and so take-it-or-leave-it you cannot fanthom whether Schizo Fun Addict are a good idea or not, but perhaps that is the whole point.
Occassionally anarchic and beautiful, sometimes a loathsome mess. But really, this is a debut that should be heard for pure provocation. Whether it is true that two band members didn't speak for years as children is something even more mysterious. (6/10)
Just as the intricate, gentle muso music of the New Acoustic Movement has been trumpeted by the critics, they are now lining up in front of their computers to dismiss it as insipid, twee, boredom on disc. In fact, nobody knows whether wearing tea-cosy hats is hip or not anymore. One would suspect it is not. However, one listen to the Kings-of-strumming Alfie should determine that this lot are ice-cool.
'If You Happy With You Need Do Nothing' is a compilation of their three EP's to date and features two brand new tracks, '2 Up 2 Down' and 'Umlaut'. And contrary to popular opinion, the Manchester boys are not that dull - more chilled. It is impossible not to picture them reclining in lush, green fields - devoid of foot and mouth disease - caressing their acoustic guitars and cellos. They smile at the graceful sounds emanating from their instruments as a group begins to gather, a few hippies turning up with some weed and beer. Cheery but lazy folk music for the Springtime. Oh, it is all about the music, maaan.
A nu-metal tribe might flex their tattooed biceps in rebellion at these tranquill thoughts, but stop them at once! Alfie rock in their own way, just with reverse extreme dynamics, even Amen say that much. Quiet and entrancing, it is polite music for relaxed times, free of the claustrophobic city din, distant from the traffic and skyscrapers, a Glastonbury party vibe without the thieves and trendies.
The moment 'Bookends' begins with its subtle twanging you are lighting the incense. 'If You Happy With You...' sounds so effortless on the surface, but beneath the atmospherics you find much intelligence at work. Cellos, brass and guitars consistently whine, parp and strum, and it does occassionally sound like the boys are dozing off, such is the mellow vibe. In turn though, it is startling and exciting. The baggy Manchester influence makes itself felt on 'It's Just About The Weather', Lee Gordon's vocals reminiscent of Tim Burgess or a stoned Liam Gallagher perhaps. '2 Up 2 Down' sounds like Belle and Sebastian have gate-crashed and demanded fizzy indie for all. That all before the harmonica-led, funky jiggery of 'You Make No Bones', the nearest Alfie get to a commercial, anthemic number. Thank God they never cross the line. You feel they would sound ridiculous should they surrender their folk meanderings.
Crucially, Alfie always sound knowing and cool, rather than hippies who have got lost in their woolies. They have a distinct charm, which is impressive for folkies, like. As I say, it is all effortless in tone, but when you are happy with it, you need do little. (8/10)
Now we are forgetting millenial tension and embracing the Twenty First century, some bands are questionning whether limiting yourself to one musical genre is purposeful anymore. Rather than using tired and tested sounds, throwing absolutely everything into the mix is increasingly common. Sometimes it is done superbly (The Avalances), sometimes horrendously (insert numerous nu-metal cross-over acts here).
Some have been joyously experimenting with the vibes and dynamics of traditionally segregated styles, fused them together and pushed the results to extremes for years, however (Beastie Boys for example). Germany's Plexiq may not be veterans of innovation, but with an acclaimed debut behind them, they are branching out yet further on '20000'. Just about every sound imaginable can be detected somewhere here, all except opera and er, running water maybe. From techno to jazz, disco to dub, there are nods in so many different directions you feel the band ought to have one hundred heads rather than five.
Surprisingly easy on the ear considering its scope, '20000' is at times forgettable and others astounding. Single 'Criminal Arts' is post-rock passion with a dub-funk groove combining to make what could be called electronic reggae, whilst the pulsating retro beats of 'Tic Tac' sounds innocent and pop-friendly. When '20000' isn't getting psychedelic ('Failure') it's going glitterball disco ('Trying'), and when its not depressing synths ('Birds') its jazz-electronica ('20000').
Though as much as this love of tampering around with sounds should generally be encouraged, it often makes for tedious listening. '20000' might be unoffensive and always intriguing, bt it consistently sounds flat. Sometimes you can be a little too over inventive it seems. (6/10)
Johann Edlund, frontman of a massive Swedish goth band called Tiamat, has decided to go solo and express his happier feelings. Naturally, we still aren't talking The Tweenies here, and this is a gothic record that is as overblown and ridiculous as you would expect from the genre. Featuring some husky voiced tempting mistress' ('Mistress Of The Night') and some deep-throated vocals from Edlund, its kind not heard since the last Sisters Of Mecry release, this is one for gothics with coloured hair extensions who love waving their hands around in the air as if gesturing to God. Stop sniggering at the back.
It's more jovial than usual Tiamat releases, but the pace remains funereal. Edlund is celebrating the finer things in life as he views them; gothic ladies in corsets, dancing under moonlight, sipping the best wine, all whilst listening to the most morbid music possible. "She is as pure as a sin" he booms having just announced "I want sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll, c'mon baby lets lose control". It's impossible not to laugh out loud. The guy permanently sings in a monotone Arnie from Terminator 2 groan and takes this, if nothing else, atmospheric style, very seriously. As you would if you were getting flithy rich from it.
This is an album with sounds last heard dying in the Eighties. Goth remains on the fringes, and Edlund knows he has the genre at his mecry. (2/10)
There is so much to dislike about this record that it practically begs for a slapping. For a start, grunge died years ago but Thirst are producing melancholy, yearning melodies that Buffalo Tom have peddled time and time again. Then there is the fact that this is so blatantly their target genre, having supported Bush and Feeder of all grunge rip-off bands. The singer sounds like he was born American but actually comes from Blighty. And the annoying hidden track - lots of fooling around and giggling - was done by Ash years ago. And it was funnier then.
So what we have here is basically Llama Farmers meets Ash. But despite the fact that Thirst are youthful, angsty sitting ducks, there is lots to encourage us to embrace their torn wooly jumpers to our hearts. Singer Chris Pennin has a voice that threatens to have us in tears at any moment, a combination of Jeff Buckley dynamics and Kurt Cobain drawl. His lyrics are admirably honest also, taking in teenage security to philosophical contemplations of getting old. And those grungy riffs that are just waiting for us cynics to pounce? Well, they are quite endearing actually.
Indeed, 'Kissing Mr.Easy' hurtles off at punk-pace, distortion and venom the background to Chris' plea to "please embrace my tiny frame". The shimmering notes of 'Younmeus' are so delicate and lovely that it is completely absorbing whilst 'Silly Astronaut' is as joyously dumb as its monicker suggests. 'State Of High Piss Off' might sound equally stupid, but its fierceness sounds like a band shedding teenage skin. Oh this is familar territory, and the fillers and cliche's on this album proves their songwriting requires some fine-tuning, but when Thirst take aim and fire, they hit the heart.
Music to get lost in, then. There hasn't been such an arresting teen-angst record for a while now. Thirst have much potential, but lets pray they don't end up like Llama Farmers. (7/10)
With metal moving into relatively new but increasingly over-tested areas by fusing loud, crunchy guitars with either hip-hop, rap or electronica, the number of rock albums that truly devastate with sheer brutality are dwindling. Apartment 26, fronted by the son of Black Sabbath's Geezer Butler, opt for the keyboards option, fusing Pitchshifter style drum 'n' bass blast-beats with Fear Factory guitars. And typically, it results in not being aggressive enough.
Sure the check-list of miserable aspects to life are present; anger, resentment and hatred towards relationships, isolation and fear of society all feature; but no arse gets kicked along the way. Which is a shame because there is clearly some macho muscle willing to do some damage somewhere behind the techno and industrial grind. The band have an ensemble approach to songwriting which could possibly be why 'Hallucinating' feels disjointed and vague when it could obviously have been a non-stop destruction fest.
Opener 'Backwards' begins well, the live sound that they employ for extra bite over keyboard based rhythms and beats, sounding savage. The deranged 'Hallucinating' sounds violent and full of old-school rave energy, also. But it's tracks like the vacant and unpolished 'The Fear' that highlight the missing elements to the at times exciting sound that Apartment 26 are trying to produce.
Perhaps it was over-hurried, the band were pushed quickly to complete this work after they finished their slot on the American Ozz-Fest, and the band will be more coherent in future. For now though, you'd only fancy one night in Apartment 26. (5/10)
Government greed and oppression for the people? Typical topics of the skate-punk movement, but even the revolution gets one-dimensional and boring sometimes. NOFX and their noisy rants or the bratty toilet humour of Blink 182? No thanks, 28 Days have arrived.
Proving that positive energy in punk can still sound good, these Australian thrash-rappers are remarkably upbeat. The opener to this debut, 'The Bird', is full of back-slapping jollity and frantic guitar. It's fast and exhilarating. There certainly isn't much fashionable angst to be found admist the scratching on 'Don't Touch My Turntables' or the eclectic hip-hop cum death metal ranting of 'Kill The Fake'. Even when touching on the trauma of a missing father, squeaky frontman Jay claims "It's not an excuse, just a cause" ('Song For Janine'). But with such a collison of styles, ranging from Beastie Boys turntable talents to turbo-speed punk, it was never going to be Alice In Chains.
And for those cynically raising eyebrows - thinking this is another bid to randomly combine and clash genres best left pure - quit it! The rush of 'Rip It Up' is the sound of baggy-trousered young men speeding down the ramps and leaping into the air, hollering 'yeeeaahh!'. It's energetic, magnetic and a shot in the arse for skate-punk music.
'Upstyledown'? This could be the overhaul that the genre needed. (7/10)
When you have consistently been tampering with the barriers between musical genres over the years, it seems there comes a point when the sum of it all has to be totalled up. Over eight albums, Eat Static have toyed with everything from dreamy loungecore to full-on bedlam dance-punk, and are now at liberty to stir up the cauldron and let the leash off the monster.
Unsurprisingly, this love of diverse sounds has once again created an album that doesn't feel entirely coherent. Yet, in Eat Static's case, this is no bad thing, for 'In The Nude' delights by swinging from lounge to screaming punk, jazz to pumping hard-house. It's a dizzy assault of the senses, an intriguingly varied one.
'Salon Kitty' begins with a latin groove, all retro and crackling vinyl, before moving into a futuristic lounge vibe that could be a soundtrack to both a porn flick and a sci-fi. Altering the mood dramatically, 'Epidemic' quickly immerses itself in crazed beats designed for dance-floor delirium, before 'Monstro' keeps on the decadence trail with its magnetic Underworld-esque trance pulse. 'Our Man In Nirvana' stuns with squalling rock guitar before melting gracefully into a chilled Sixties bliss. It's all brilliantly imaginative and inspired, distinct sounds and atmospheres executed perfectly. 'Temponaut' is less striking with its awkward funk loops but the dark 'Mandrake' is hypnotic with its swirling alien synths. They are brave tracks, proving Eat Static are as committed to evolving and mutating their output as ever.
'In The Nude' deconstructs genres and lets a multitude of sounds flow all at once. It works almost brilliantly. (8/10)
Fan worship is often an embarrassing exercise in the deconstruction of dignity, when the boundaries between idol and obsession are crossed. Stan, anyone? Yet the two-way channeling of devotion between My Ruin and their growing audience is heartening. The band spend as much time meeting, greeting and treating their fans as possible when over in Britain. Tairrie even personifys our shores as a lover in her opening thank-you message: "No-one really understands it/ I love it when that happens".
'To Britain With Love...and Bruises' is a gift of sorts. OK, you have to pay over a tenner for eleven tracks, which contain no previously unreleased material and you could be cynical of the motives for its release. After all My Ruin only really shift units in this country. But that would be to miss the point entirely. Only ten thousand copies have been pressed, the booklet includes endless fan photos and pictures, and the behaviour of the band on the road is proof enough that they have feelings for their audience that can only be described as, well, sweet. Guitarist Mick Murphy might be Tairrie's real lover, but this is a limited edition present for the fans. With love.
Recorded without any major production or technical enhancement, this is a live session album that reduces My Ruin to their rawest. It demonstrates their talents blatantly, showing why the band are so necessary for stamping on some of metal's nastiest cliche's with size twelve boots. Tairrie is a frontwoman with an awesome vocal capacity, far excelling many of the genre's male screamers, and is finally paving the way for women to infiltrate the sexist metal scene. Tairrie sweats and screams over stoner noise from her hard-rocking bandmates, and the whole thing amounts to a spine-tingling, blasphemous work of rage.
Compared to the songs in their pretty forms on 'Speak and Destroy' and 'A Prayer Under Pressure Of Violent Anguish', the riffs are more brutal, aggressive and domineering when untampered with, especially on the stoner-grind of 'Heartsick'. Over the top, Tairrie unleashes the most primal roars, sounding quite demonic on occassion, 'Blasphemous Girl' growing to a trash conclusion. Playful yet serious and truly awe-inpiring, Tairrie's lungs are a force to be reckoned with. We are waiting for the duet with Phil Anselmo.
One for the hardcore fans, for this is nothing strictly new. Just the sound of a band continuing to prove their vitality. (7/10)
Either Hannibal the Cannibal is starting to effect me away from the confines of the cinema, or this album is very sinister sounding. Once dubbed the "scariest looking band", Scandinavia's Anywhen produce the most enigmatic of music, songs that are both beautiful and terrifying. After three years of absence, some of which group mastermind Thomas Feiner spent in complete isolation, the band have returned with grand strings, soulful melodies and sadness verging on the unhinged.
Feiner certainly has a knack for making his songs tormentingly dark yet lush through his intricate romantic imagery. Whether he is creating ambience through the flowing piano-led 'Scars and Glasses' or hinting at mental deterioration with the languid, sullen violins on 'Toys', the tone is always moody and brooding. Perfect for an avant-garde film on self-discovery or self-induced solitary confinement, perhaps.
"I've found more truth in a cheap bottle of wine" Feiner sighs during 'Postcard'. Clearly burdened with feelings of abandonment, and fearful of losing control, he wrestles with his desires to see love requited ('Mesmerene') and the temptation to turn his back on these inclinations forever ('Dinah And The Beautiful Blue'). Towards the end of an oddly chilling 'Toys' Feiner hums randomly, before the track abruptly stops. It is unsettling, bleak and longing, but also heartening.
The sweeping hooklines and the drawl of Feiner are emotional and punishing. It might be the sound of someone's marbles being lost, but it is astonishingly addictive desolation. (8/10)
When people are having so much fun, how can you knock them? An album packed full of random samples, cheery guitar riffs and harmonies to put smiles on the most miserable of faces, should be just what we need in the winter months. Yet this debut from Lowfinger, fails to get you laughing. Or even grooving.
Which is a shame because the topics make you dream of some modern day, cutting-edge Beach Boys-esque band. Dancing on sea shores, trips to exotic places and upbeat accounts of problematic women, this really should be buzzing. What we actually get is an opener called 'Superfinger' which sounds like a shite Happy Mondays, '3 Monkey Soup' that is Sugar Ray without any sex-appeal and a whole host of feel-good tracks that flirt with groove-based latin and swing sounds to poor affect. All so well-intentioned but their formula becomes irritating far too quickly.
Who's got all the biscuits, they ask? Someone tell them quick, because they only have plain digestives by the sounds of it. (3/10)
Pop-metal is dodgy territory, but Terrorvision have breathed life into the crossover with their standard-setting bounce anthems over the years. It all nearly went wrong when EMI pointed to the door, but after being retrieved from the void by the indie-brigade, the momentum has gathered pace again.
From the delightfully dumb 'Oblivion' onwards, the band have picked up a loyal fanbase, steadily working their way up the festival bills, releasing four party albums for metal kids who like to smile a bit. Revolution has never been the objective, Tony Wright and his grinning boys pefer to pogo rather than pontificate. Nothing wrong with that, except a repeated formula needs to be kept sword-sharp if respect is to be maintained and being viewed as a parody of themselves avoided.
The trick on 'Good To Go' is to retain their trademark refreshing humour and camp it up to the hilt. 'Fists Of Fury' recalls 'Tragedy', Steps-style no less, even adding twanging country guitars over the irritatingly catchy disco beat. Then there is the plain ridiculous Eighties throwback of 'From Out Of Nothing', which incredibly stays on the right side of shit throughout. Sadly, 'Goldmine Jamjar' doesn't.
Yet Terrorvision's greatest strengths lie in their enthusiasm for beefing pop music up with bastard rawk guitars. D'Ya Wanna Go Faster?' is the perfect return after two years of negociating a new deal. A turbo-charged, full-throttle buzz of energy had to be on the cards. 'Come Home Beanie' would sound like Reef if they would cut-loose and put the foot on the peddle. The, lets say, advantages of visiting Amsterdam are celebrated whilst a plea for a travelling free-spirit to return home is simultaneously issued over a desperate sounding rhythm. The brilliantly manic 'Friends And Family' was so obviously written with their ubiquitious festival appearances in mind; "Party over here/ Fuck you over there". It's classic Terrorvision.
And the old Terrorvision debate has been exhausted long ago, thank you. Whether or not they are relevant and necessary is not an issue. They don't care and that is their glory, this attitude fueling the quality of their output. And sometimes, all we wanna do is rock. (6/10)
Well she can't be, can she? No angel would ever dream of teaming up with the baddest boy in rap - Eminem. Especially on a song about a crazed, obsessive fan who brutally murders his wife, dumps her dead body into a lake, cuts his wrists, fantasties homosexually about a hip-hop artist and then tops himself. "You don't wanna fuck wit Shady/ Cos Shady will fucking kill you"... Anyway, so Dido must be one bad girl. Sadly not. This is an album perfect for friends who suffer from the misfortune of sitting around writing copious amounts of romantic poetry, dreaming of handsome knights in shining armour whilst listening to Jewel. Cups of tea are rock 'n' roll ("My tea's gone cold/ I'm wondering why") and there is nothing to talk about other than lovely lovers. All tragically boring.
The highlight of 'No Angel' is hearing the original source of that wonderful female verse from Eminem's 'Stan'. 'Thank You' is about the stresses and pressures of everyday life that are made that little bit easier by having a dreamy, hunk of man waiting at home for you at the end of the day. The bongo's and flutes add subtely and attraction. It's one of two occassions on the album when Dido shows she can turn relatively bland strum-alongs into beautiful, aching tunes. The other is 'Here With Me', a soulful, tearful account of knowing a single person can add so much purpose to existance. All cliched topics, but at least inspired.
Yet elsewhere, Dido repeats herself until 'No Angel' becomes a big, soppy mess with no real substantial content. She sounds like one of The Corrs gone solo and whilst her breathy vocals often shine ('My Lover's Gone'), the tracks generally do not.
Can we talk about Eminem again now? (5/10)
Nu-metal might be the most ubiquitious of sounds right now, but Papa Roach almost missed the boat. Having been telling their tales of intense misery and anger longer than pioneer types such as Korn and Limp Bizkit, yet playing toilet venues whilst the in-crowd threw shapes in stadiums, it could have all been lost. Then 'Infest' was created.
Having been battering US audiences senseless for ages now, Papa Roach have finally set their sounds on our ears. Offering something different in the downtuned, mundane nu-metal genre is pretty uncommon, yet there is so much fierce self-hatred, rage and resentment on 'Infest' that it's difficult not to lend a sympathetic ear. Sure the standard hip-hop posturing is evident, the envitable scratching making a play for cross-over credibility and recognition as being somehow 'eclectic', but Cobey's demons are genuinely disturbing.
After a somewhat dubious opening of cliched attack on how "government, media and all your family" are ruining the world ('Infest'), comes the powerful, desperate 'Last Resort'. It warns that suicide is looking like the only possible escape for a man torn by a traumatic childhood. The guy even wet the bed until he was 16. "Mutilation out of sight/ I'm contemplating suicide" cries Cobey over sweeping, heavy guitars. 'Broken Home' is similarly emotive both musically and lyrically, manic stabs of documented menance rumbling underneath the frontman ranting "Does my father even care/ If I'm sad or angry/ You were never there". Even more painfully honest is 'Dead Cell', an antisocial track of furious noise, detailing the destruction alcoholism brings.
It's unrelentless,confessional truth. The singer pleads for happiness over possessions on 'Between Angels and Insects', and turns his concerns to the lack of solidarity and unity between us greedy idiots on 'Blood Brothers', but gradually it begins to wear you down. So similar is 'Snakes' to 'Never Enough', so sparse is any attempt at variation that towards the end of 'Infest', Cobey's torture becomes a nightmare of a different sort.
So now they know we care, they shake the walls of the arenas and have put some much required danger back into the scene. Just a little more experimentation that doesn't involve lame hip-hop or scratching, next time, maybe? (6/10)
"The Clan are a danger to the public" are the words of warning which open 'The W'. Something to prove? Perhaps. Since 'Enter The W-Tang: 36 Chambers', we have seen the members involved in solo ventures, films, growing-up and fucking-up. Ol'Dirty Bastard might be keeping the dangerous edge to the Wu as sharp as razors, but babies belonging to the tribe? Are these guys still for real?
Strap on yo' bullet-proof vests motherfuckers and keep your heads low, because these guys aren't just for real, they remain deadly. RZA describes this comeback as a "B-boy album", and they certainly reclaim some ground with it. The mood is still dark, the grooves still punishing and the lyrics as relevant as ever. Ol'Dirty Bastard might have just lead the cops on a merry dance, but there ain't no smiling to be done during the playing of this.
'Chamber Music' slides in threateningly, strings building up and then suddenly vanishing, creating a feeling of dread. Rounds of shots are reeled off behind the dirty rhythm. The music of horror movies has begun. Next comes the eerie pulse of 'Careful (Click Click)', accompanied by the sounds of swords being unsheethed and guns loading. Menancing samples cut in and out, scattered through and around an unnerving nusery rhyme chorus, "Something in the slum went rump-a-pum-pum...Something in the hall went click-click". It's hard and the tone is nasty.
After a stand-off between some cops and an innocent black youth which results in the cop needlessly blasting him, 'Hollow Bones' sensually strikes up, soulful beats complimenting a gorgeous female sample. The strings return to underly some serious rapping on 'Redbull' and then Ol' Dirty and Snoop Doggy Dogg perform a decidely stoned exchange on 'Conditioner'. Best of all is the orchestral lush of 'I Can't Go To Sleep', Isaac Hayes' gravel tones pleading for the bad boys to "love each other". Saxaphones seventies kitsch and almost ballad-style sentiments? It's not typical Wu-Tang, but it works fantastically.
More upbeat is the throbbing 'Do You Really (Thang Thang)' and the astonishing pop-kitsch of 'Gravel Pit'. It's like Wu are starting to take the piss. Great tracks they certainly are, but you feel like the nine musicians are now so skilled and talented that they could be diluting their sound purely out of frustration with making their usual dark and atmospheric standards.
At least it's never a dull moment on 'The W'. Surprises, pop, dread and soul all mixed up to astounding affect, but the hip-hop is never truly lost. (8/10)
With metal largely being about baggy trousers, key-chains and bankers today, it is heartening to see Annihilator sticking to their studded wristbands and playing furious, wrist-snapping rock like the Devil is about to swoop down and claim them tomorrow.
On the other hand, it's worrying that Annihilator seem SO ignorant to the recent innovative developments in heavy music. Their stubborn refusal to move on means their 'Master Of Puppets'-era Metallica metal sounds dated and like relics from the fret-masturbation of the Eighties. It may be admirable that they stick to their passion of using thrashy, razor-sharp riffs to emphasise their tales about the Devil ('Carnival Diablos'), the drawbacks of advancing technology ('The Perfect Virus') and the thrill of adrenaline rushes ('The Rush'), but this tenth studio album offers little that is fresh or inspiring.
'Carnival Diablos' is very focused and sharp, combining a winning balance between melody and sheer brutality, but the squealing solos and the stabbing of chords leave the album gasping for any sense of relevance. Joe Comeau might have shifted a million units, and this may continue to please the faithful, but new converts are highly unlikely.
Annihilating the Limp Bizkit's? Sadly not. (4/10)
Are the best things in life those that are free, or those that are naughty? Queens Of The Stone Age let their opinions be known with a jubilant chant of "Nicotine, valium, vicodan, marijuana, ecstasy and alcohol" repeated again and again. With an energised yet hazy blast, 'Feel Good Hit Of The Summer' is both the Queen's offer of an anthem for a doomed and bored youth and an invitation into the delightfully dangerous areas of life.
They haven't called this 'Rated R' for nothing. There are tales of revenge, violence, disbelief and paranoia, all of which are fuelled by dodgy drugs and other wild excesses. Swerving from the dreamy, monged-out confusion of 'Auto-Pilot' to the chunky and acerbic threat of 'The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret', the atmospheric sounds veer from chemically-induced laziness to energetic charges of intent. The floating vocals of 'Better Living Through Chemistry' (now there's a dodgy title!) tell of paranoid delusions and encounters with sharp knifes as the guitars fade in and out with hypnotic gasps accompanying them. Imagine sitting in a smoky room after a few joints and this is the perfect soundtrack. Moving from the chilled-out effects of drugs to the more hardcore, 'Monsters In The Parasol' is an account of bizarre hallucinations and excess.
So it's very rock 'n' roll, and proving they are capable of throwing their heads back and letting loose a wild howl, the Queens come over all Motorhead on 'Quick To The Pilot'. It's a stomping, super-charged blast of excitable greasey rock. Quite what the yelps of Nick Oliveri are trying to communicate one can only guess, but it sounds intriguingly wicked. Former Screaming Trees frontman Mark Lanegan lends his dark touch to 'In The Fade' with Joshua Homme complimenting him with his deep, heavy tones behind. Then it's a reprise of 'Feel Good Hit Of The Summer', as if these guys haven't detailed enough strange, drug-induced tales already!
It's a return to the fundamental elements of loud and life-affirming rock 'n' roll. It's threatening, chemically-enhanced, full of sex and laden with definite moods. Most of all it makes you want to get hammered. Which is a job well done. (8/10)
You wonder whether Danny McCormack is over his old band's split. Beginning the album with '1000 Miles From Home', a wild and distorted gem which sounds like it is from 'Endless Nameless'-era Wildhearts, and then continuing it with ironic, melodic punk-pop, hints he might crave for his band of old.
Strangely enough, Yo-Yo's sound exactly like his old bandmate CJ's latest band, The Jellies as well! It's exuberant, harmony-drenched, post-pub rock 'n' roll for leather-clad bikers who like to dance. 'Home From Home' sounds like it's sung by Lemmy from Motorhead and 'Rumble(d) is dirty, greasey rock, the band yelling "I don't need you/ I got my big shoes and tattoos!"
Yet when you think you have been overcome by the right drunken spirit, they throw in sickeningly pleasant, polished punk-pop like 'Time Of Your Life' and 'Out Of My Mind'. They are standard, unoriginal and flat. Like songs by biker's who have discovered the pub is shutting early.
The Yo-Yo's are better when they are naughty. You see, this record is a bit... can you guess the pun? (5/10)
Does anyone remember when Placebo seemed vital? Good, even? They were a spikey, venomous proposition, drenched in blood, spunk and funk. Most importantly, they turned the Nation's indie-brigade into panda-eyed style-mongers. The self-titled debut was dazzling, the follow-up sad and reserved. They were always exciting and promising.
Then came their dark days. Rubbish cover versions and embarrassing cameo appearances in 'Velvet Goldmine' chartered their gradual disappearance into a black hole. Molko changed from sexily arrogant to obnoxiously pretentious, his latest interviews insulting and naive. Then the lame electro-goth of 'Taste In Men' followed, proving the music had followed Molko's attitude up his arse. Market Music indeed.
Molko's voice has always been an acquired taste but he used to sound adrenalised and full of fuck-you rage and sorrow. Now it's just irritating, his lyrics odd and saying little. Jesus Christ, there is even rapping on 'Spite And Malice', apparently about homophobia, and it's fucking awful. 'Slave To The Wage' might have lovely REM guitar-sounds but when Molko is wailing "Sick and tired of Maggie's farm/ She's a bitch/ Broken arm", all charm somewhat disappears.
The ballads used to be heart-breaking and moving, remember 'Without You, I'm Nothing'? Well that depth and feeling has been replaced by the likes of the desolate, sorrow-tinged 'Passive Aggressive', where a few loud bits interrupting the quiet bits is meant to provide dramaticism and emotion. Oh, and Molko tries to sound all sexy and dominant over the top. "I wrote this just for you-oo-oo/ It sounds pretentious but it's true-oo-oo" he whines on 'Blue American' which is just a shite 'Burger Queen'.
I could go on. It's disappointing, mystifying, boring and the sound of a band that have gotten too involved with their self-importance. Misunderstood? Honest? No, just crap. (3/10)
If you thought Rage Against The Machine were pissed off, wait until you hear the angriest, most brutal and important record this year. Amen are fronted by a man who has led a tortured existence. Casey Chaos was bullied at school and left permanantly needing medication after becoming a drug addict as a teenager. He generally thinks this world fucking stinks. On stage, he regularly slices his arms up through sheer rage and contempt. They have come for you parents and plan on wringing their necks.
The blood-curdling scream that begins 'CK Killer' sounds like someone being both possessed and tortured. Then slams in an ascending heavy-as-hell riff before Chaos begins screaming abuse at Calvin Klein and the capitalist scum on the earth. "We're paralysed!" he bellows, sounding like he'll collapse if he isn't careful. But no, a whole album of distortion, sledge-hammer riffs, psychotic frustration and disgust follows. 'The Price Of Reality' spits venom at America accompanied by punishing, frenetic punk-metal. It is consistent and tremendously powerful, the words "Born dead on the fourth of July", left ringing in your ears. The more funky 'Ungrateful Dead' and the call for anarchy of 'Under The Robe' keep the hatred flowing from the speakers.
The honesty of this record is obvious. Every word is summoned from the gut, phlegm drenched in blood spat at authority. It's an immense release - hate and despair evident in every note, break and roar. The violence tears into all that is hollow and fake.
Amen are putting truth back into metal, rocking harder than anyone and with heaps worth saying. Amen to that. (9/10)
An explosion on record. A manic Formula One speed punk assault. Dancing on the corpses ashes. They say that a handful of great bands come along every ten years and At The Drive-In must be the first of the naughties.
At The Drive-In are wild, twenty-somethings with a conscience. The type of people who begin their gigs by insisting aggression in the pit is kept to a minimum but then go on to play the most energetic set in rock. They would rather their audiences hug than punch. Music is a celebration not a war. Fuck, have we got a band who really mean something coming straight towards us?
Not a moment of toilet humour or pratty punk here. It's intelligent punk raging. Opener 'Arcarsenal' builds thrillingly with a divine mesh of groovy bass and impending guitar into a yelping furore. 'Pattern Against User' follows as an uplifting, manic, standard-setting joy. 'One Armed Scissor' is Iggy Pop forcing Nirvana to shake their butts. And the Pop himself contributes to a frantic 'Rolodex Propaganda'.
Every word Cedric hollers sounds so desperate and important, like he cannot say it quick enough. He summons all his passion with ease and the most raw and primal of yelps are unleashed. Check the manic burble of 'Invalid Litter Dept', complimented by an anthemic chorus. Incidently, the subject matter of this joyous musical romp is cremation.
With tunes as big as their hair, rage as passionate as Rage Against The Machine's and intelligence devoid of pretension and self-doubt, brace yourself for a band that could change your life. (9/10)
This is somewhat of a surprise. We are used to referring to PJ as the 'Empress Of Darkness', always imagining her wandering lonely windy hill-tops, craving love and fulfilment. Not surprising considering her previous works, including the torn and intense 'Rid Of Me' and the dreamy, 3rd person tales of 'This Is Desire?'. PJ albums have been tortured affairs, her accounts of sexual sojourns and desolation gripping but uncomfortable.
Yet PJ seems to have thrown off her dark cloak, straightened her hair, glammed herself up and decided to have some fun. Recorded in New York and Dorset, the subject matters of this fifth PJ album are very much traditional NY concerns and Patti Smith-esque, but there is an unexpected, uplifting feel to the album. Whilst remaining firmly gritty in areas -"Speak to me of heroin and speed/ Genocide and suicide/ Syphillis and Greed" she snarls on 'The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore' - for the majority of her fifth album she sounds refreshed and enlightened.
Her collaborations with Thom Yorke of Radiohead illustrate this best. Allowing himself to venture back to guitar music instead of pumping electronica, Yorke lends his aching vocals to the stunning 'The Mess We're In', a beautiful and sexual number during which Yorke sings "I dream of making love to you now baby" to which Harvey later replies "The sweat on my skin, uh!". Rather than lingering on the more harmful nature of sex, PJ embraces it's fulfilment on 'Stories...'. "I feel the innocence of a child" she beams on the upbeat 'Good Fortune' and teases us with lines like "You showed me what I could do". Yorke's haunting backing vocals on 'One Line' and 'Beautiful Feeling' create eerie but positive sounds, these tracks subtlely and cautiously expressing the joys of love. This is not the PJ Harvey of old.
Her feelings literally run away with her on 'Horses In My Dreams' in which Harvey employs the age-old metaphor of horses running free to convey new-found sense of release. Possibly also about her recovery from a 'breakdown' of sorts, she sings "I have pulled myself clear" and you imagine her allowing herself a cautious smile. 'We Float' also reflects on the darker times of previous but bursts into a celebratory, anthemic chorus. It is a tentative nod towards life with comfort.
Harvey is content and is shouting about it from the top of the buildings of NYC. We suspect that she will never be completely free of anxiety and self-doubt, her records would not be PJ without these unfortunate trademarks, but we are more than content to take her arm for a walk to happiness. (9/10)
With so much attention falling at the feet of macho metallers and trendier-than-thou UK Garage fans, indie has fell a little silent of late. Save the swift emergence of Coldplay and the more steady ascendence of Travis, few albums have really been inspirational from the normally trusty genre.
So what have we here? Young, indie-trio with sweeping angst numbers? We've all seen that before. Yet JJ72 have produced an exciting debut that bristles with youthful concerns and shines with it's tight musicianship, insisting you are moved by at least one of their striking assets. Most obvious is singer Mark's voice. Like a cross between Jeff Buckley and Brian Molko, he may be an acquired taste, but he certainly sounds anything but disingenious. A listen to the gorgeous and tearful 'Undercover Angel' forces this the most, the "Angel is worth the risk/ An angel is what you are" lines striking deep, pulling at the heartstrings. Another quality is the elegant use of strings in the likes of 'Oxygen'. Unlike so many other contempories, JJ72's motivation for the sweeping grandeur is for beauty and emotion rather than arty pretentiousness. The power with which the music is delivered show the singer's band are very capable musicians also. The next single 'October Swimmer' keeps the sorrowful tinge, but proves the band can deal with the power-pop aptly, also.
The main problem with this album however, is that JJ72 seem reluctant to stray outside of what they know best, and some tracks blur into the next. 'Surrender' may be intriguing with its's experimental dance-style start, but despite a welcome stab at guitar ambience, you feel they opted out of pushing things to the very edge.
But then, this is a debut, and a very powerful one. This promising collection of strident tracks hint that the best is yet to come and that this is a band who draw inspiration from the best of places. The soul. (7/10)
Tairrie B may be brutally honest, but she isn't controversial by nature. The fiery frontwoman just likes making angry metal music, so when faced with condescending insults and put-downs from magazine editors, fellow musicians and jealous friends, things must get immensely frustrating. Her catharsis incorporates all this as well as failed relationships, self-esteem and her fixation with religion.
Tairrie's records have always captured her inner demons and torment perfectly. Her metamorphisis from rap queen to metal monster have seen her front numerous bands, but the output has been inspirational, emotional and consistent. From the politicised 'All Is Not Well' to the diverse and experimental career highlight of 'Speak And Destroy', Tairrie has pushed herself to the limit. Yet curiously on 'Prayer...', Tairrie seems to have retreated back to what she knows best - straight hardcore metal. Whilst her committment to her roots is admirable, the honesty isn't always quite so beautiful.
Here the riffs take ages to grow fond of, perhaps the switch to the intriguing new stoner style of Mick Murphy being the reason. Tracks like 'Heartsick' and 'Post Noise Revolution' are forgettable whilst 'Letter To The Editor', a furious attack on a spiteful female journalist, borders on shameful. Yet when the band are on fire, they really fucking burn, sounding adrenalised and frightening. 'Beauty Fiend' is a huge fuck-off to those who criticise Tairrie's appearance and expect her to conform to traditional stereotypes whilst 'Rockstar' sends a shiver down the spine. The track is dedicated to her best-friend Lynn Strait who was killed in a car crash last year, and she details her hurt, sorrow and love with beautiful aggression. At the crescendo of a conclusion, you visualise her fall to her knees as she screams "I am just a girl that hurts" over and over. Elsewhere, 'Let It Rain' is sensual, dark and atmospheric whilst 'Miss Ann Thrope', a duet with Jessika from Jack Off Jill, is unbelievably powerful. The cover of Nick Cave's 'Do You Love Me?' also impresses.
'Prayer' is a great album, but is bruised by the odd weak and uninspiring filler. Tairrie's previous work has demanded attention, and the added weight of the new members will help her cause. You see, when they are good, none can beat them. (7/10)
The signs are bad. They call themselves 'Disturbed' and choose an album title which almost guarantees self-indulgent angst and plenty of discriptions of why they are too mental for normal folk. From Coal Chamber to Static-X, we have far too many 'freak or unique?' bands already, most of which have nothing to say.
Predictably, Disturbed are downtuned metal noise-mongers screaming their demons out into the air before them. Yet after a few close listens, a clear committment to other causes becomes evident. Sure, the singer has a scatty Jonathon Davis 'craziness' to his rantings and his lyrics occassionally leave a little to be desired - "All the people in the left wing/ Rah!/ All the people in the right wing/ Rah!/ All the people in the projects" - blah blah, but Disturbed offer a melodic, funky groove which works well. 'Stupify' is a fine example of their attractive metal-with-melody and it is a song which rages savagely against bigotry, whilst heavier outbursts such as 'Down With The Sickness' drive home aggression and frustration with conviction and purpose.
Yet on the whole, it is difficult to warm to their pain and strife when there isn't quite enough innovation on offer. Better than a fair few of the current crop of metal giants, but still ultamitely unsatisfying. (5/10)
Upon discovering this supergroup (of sorts) includes Tool frontman Maynard Keenan and Billy Howerdel, an ex-Nine Inch Nails, Smashing Pumpkins and Tool handyman, along with a drummer from The Vandals, you might have guessed this album would be dreadfully dark and uneasy.
Which it certainly is. Very much 'dreadful' in the sense of Keenan battling with the fearful and the mystic in his angst-fuelled gasps about the Devil, broken hearts and death. Perhaps the band are treading concerns that one too many pretentious, troubled rock bands have wrestled with, but the anxious tension in the lyrics compliments the genuinely creepy gothic strains to such an eerie extent that the familiar ground sounds fresh and alive.
Try 'Magdalena' for some haunting atmospherics, where the guitar is made to sound dangerous again. Deeper into the musical quagmire is the screaming violins of 'Rose', which sounds like it has been recorded in Satan's very own private dungeons. Elsewhere is a potential horror movie track called 'Over', the xylophone plonking so threateningly that you begin to feel quite strange indeed. Guilty of not pushing their experimentation to the hilt they may be, but the diversity the band offer is still admirable.
Music is surely all about emotion and communication and no-one said everything had to be about innocence of shine. A Perfect Circle make scary, grating music that the likes of horror-freak Rob Zombie could well do with a listen to. For the rest of you, they will inflitrate your dreams and tightly crush your soul. Let them do the darkening. (7/10)
Like a cool blast of fresh air on a scorching hot summer's day, Pearl Jam remain a refreshing proposition. During a time when rock bands are putting image over substance, the Seattle band remain uncompromisingly uncorporate, refusing virtually all interviews and rarely making a promotional video. At first, the bands reculsive behaviour was greeted with a cynical derision, but years later, we all understand their reluctance to make a fuss.
Pearl Jam are a valuable lesson in subtely. On their 1998 album 'Yield', Eddie Vedder crooned, 'I've stopped trying to make a difference' and it was probably the day he resolved to let destiny shape his future path that Pearl Jam became so important. Whilst earlier albums like 'Ten' and 'VS' were astonishingly good, they were hindered by an evident self-conciousness that caused great dislike and mistrust of the ex-grungers. These days the band have mellowed and are thus producing uplifting, infuriated albums like 'Binaural'.
Here we have thirteen dark and passionate tracks that continue the themes and progressions that were first started on the 'No Code' album. So there remains a lot of comtemplation about the metaphyisical, but the scope explored by the ever thoughtful Vedder has broadened even further. 'Breakfall' for instance is a snarling rocky blast that sneers at cynicism and hopelessness; 'Light Years' is a touching, sentimental track Vedder penned after a close friend died; and 'Soon Forget' is a devishly dark humoured attack on the all-powerful capitalist figures which includes the lines "Counts his money every morning/ The only thing that makes him horny" and "Lying Dead/ Clutching Benjamins/ He's stiffening/ We're all Whistling". Directed at Rupert Murdock and Bill Gates we presume. Keeping with the political fighting talk, there are a few reflections upon the rioting in Seattle recently on 'Grievance'. It's all political fighting talk.
Despite having some strong feelings to share, there is a relaxed, unfashionable delivery on 'Binaural'. Never does it preach or pretend. The predictable Neil Young guitars are as prominent as the deep drawl of Vedder. Each song is subtle and enchanting, many taking a few listens to get into. On the odd exception, the lack of immediacy can make for dull listening, but on the whole, 'Binaural' is startling, exciting and necessary.
The steady, quality delivery from Pearl Jam over the years has been a treat and sceptics are now quietly mummuring about whether this could be the band's last offering. If their suspicions prove to be correct, then Pearl Jam will have gone out in a blaze of fire. (8/10)
Caught in the troubled ground between terrible sadness and a bouyant lust for life, 'Trail Of Dead' make uneasy, headache-inducing music. The guitars screech out unbelieveably great pure noise and it sounds like a curious meeting between early-Sonic Youth and Jesus And Mary Chain, it's manipulators sounding like they have bellies filled with fire and positive fury. Kevin Allen and his cohorts execute music fuelled by an excitable enthusiasm for freedback drenched melodies, and if not for their lyrics, they would sound happy to a sickening degree.
Instead, Kevin Allen's often spoken lyrics are miserable and painfully reflective. Opener 'Mistakes and Regrets' details a destructive meeting of minds, the loss of faith after a failed relationship and the empty, numb feelings left by having love turn sour. 'Totally Natural' appears to be about those who fake emotion and merely act profundity; "He's so beautiful to see/ But something's lost underneath/ Enter the wounded animal", allen hollers over a jumpy, unsettling rhythm. We are hearing the sound of four people who are hurt and can think of no better way to exorcise their demons than by playing some of the best and most beastly rock on the planet.
Really this is punk rock. Despite being resolutely edgy and pissed off, ...Trail Of Dead are simply not about making morbid, self-defeating angst nonsense. They take the negatives and produce positives, unleashing tension in the process. It certainly does on the ruthless 'Aged Dolls' and closer 'A Perfect Teenhood', the latter ending with Allen repeating the words "Fuck You!" over and over. And it's this determined, fiery attitude that makes them one of the most exciting bands on the planet. (8/10)
You have to ask yourself just what is happening in rock music currently when an album has to begin with a retaliation from an all-female band because they were billed as 'ladyman' at the Bowlie festival, of all places. "Freak that I am" grimaces Corin Tucker as she reflects on how women are still treated so patronisingly in rock music in the 21st century.
So Sleater-Kinney have made it their mission to strap on their machine-guns, take a steady aim and deal with the uneducated and the foolish. They never demean themselves by over-indulging in their problem with the oppressive male dominated music industry, however. 'Kinney have hit back with a sound of urgency and determination. They realise that as a relatively obscure band they are not yet going to be banishing the jock-rockers back to the porn shops as yet and so they are content to simply make a passionate and sharp rock 'n' roll album, which is the biggest victory any band can accomplish. This is the sound of triumphant, fierce and straight-up rock without any preaching.
"You're no rock 'n' roll fun" the band guffaw at all the uptight male musicians thinking they can have the last God-like word to say to the masses. 'Lighten up, grab a beer and party people!' is the message from the 'Kinney. "Go ahead and flunk my ass!" Corin yells in total defiance. Indeed the band have one or two more serious messages to share with us on the likes of 'Male Model' and 'Ballad Of A Ladyman', but essentially, this is good-time slick rock to rave to. The tracks are strident, classy and pretty. It's nu-wave in leather trousers with a can of mace to blind you in the face.
Rock 'n' roll fun all the way! (8/10)
For those without prior knowledge of this female quartet, the name Angelica probably conjuers up an image of the crafty and oddly adorable little brat from the kids television cartoon 'Rugrats'. The band have made an mini-album that would be the perfect soundtrack to her scheming and mischevious existence.
You see, whilst Angelica are riot-grrls with enormous personalities and immense wit, the realise (in much the same way that Courtney Love did when making Hole's transformation into pop pretties) that there is no necessity to construct material of an abrasive and bitter nature all the time. Instead, they craft clever and gorgeous bubblegum melodies that are refreshing and deviod of self-conciousness. If Angelica's tunes were trapped inside a gem, then a sparkling Emerald or Ruby would be the jewel of Angelica.
That isn't to say Angelica aren't sniggering behind their sweet exterior's and smirking when singing those lovely harmonies. Listen carefully to 'Bring Back Her Head' and witness the jealous rantings on a track about the decapitation of a rival lover. 'Why Did You Let My Kitten Die?' might be an ode to a purring feline, but it's delicate glockenspiel chimes are submerged beneath a buzzing, Pixies-esque guitar grunge. It's very Kenickie, but less artsy and more genuine. A few more tracks and this would no doubt be stunning.
Like when stroking a cat, the most intriguing of animals, you are never sure whether Angelica are really contented or are patiently waiting for you to be off-guard, so they can claw and bite your finger off. Beware. (7/10)
Deftones aren't like the others. Whilst the jock-rock metallers flaunt their tattoos, pecs and piercings like it is making them kings of the football field, the Deftones are sensitive, gentle souls who have been struck by the fist of angst. It's about the tears, the pain and the emotion rather than boiler suits and pseudo hip-hop posturing.
Meet Chino Moreno. He's the singer with Deftones and has a powerful, stirring voice that instantly overcomes you with sentiment, the sort of voice that can make absolutely any lyric sound majestic and tragic. Which is just as well considering some of the lyrical offerings on this album are a real good chuckle. Never really blessed with a skill for coherent rambling, Moreno wails "You're my girl and that's alright" on 'RX Queen' like he's bloody Jon Bon Jovi. On 'Elite' we hear "You're into depression/ Cos' it matches your eyes". Hmm, "Take it home and fuck with it", indeed.
And talking of fucking, Chino has found himself the sex symbol of metal. He is the heavy-metaller you could present in front of your mother and not risk being locked in your room for a week as punishment. Trendy but not outlandish, polite but with plenty to say, Chino is the fervent man of heavy rock who listens to Radiohead and The Cure a lot, and it is these influences that really make their presence felt on 'White Pony'. The reason this album soars so high and sweeps with such grace is that it combines opposites do craftily. The tracks are swamped with AOR hooks and gothic influences, whilst still retaining their trademark menacing approach to metal. Musical atmospherics set the scenes and Chino does the narration. Take away the loose skater jeans and there is Robert Smith with extra volume in his hair.
It is the pompous stadium rock sounds that will take Deftones to the mainstream and see them rise to huge heights, much like The Smashing Pumpkins experienced during the 'Siamese Dream' era. Whilst being largely radio-friendly however, Deftones still know how to unleash the dragon. 'Elite' is a relentless, psycho battering which recalls 'Engine No.9' from the band's debut and 'Knife Party' is as stabbing and as lethal as the title suggests.
So, the Deftones have it sorted. They have defined their sound, making metal suitable for the radio without losing their venomous edge and have mastered the art of being pretentious without really sounding it. 'White Pony' is a calculated, fantastic album. Saddle up and get riding. (8/10)
Courtney Love claims that Kate Garside invented Riot Grrl. This may well be accurate if her buzzing little punk band Daisy Chainsaw was any indicator. Kate became a beaten tough-cookie however as she retreated to the hills after the 'Love Your Money' explosion, suffering from a breakdown. Her turbulent relationship with bandmate Crispin Gray was increasingly torrid and she was last heard muttering about how she could bear him no longer.
Yet Kate has stuggled back from the brink of despair, reuniting with the man she fled from, and has formed a predictably diverse and odd band called Queen Adreena. After experiencing her recent trials and tribulations, this band would always be a little, dark, shall we say. The anger and friction remains intact, but the approach is somewhat altered.
This record focuses on opposites - fear and confidence, love and hate, dark and light - and explores the scope that these extremes have. All this is submerged beneath PJ Harvey-esque gothic sounds, with wailing, spooky chanting and funereal atmospherics adding to a disturbing, unsettling recording of nervous energy.
'Cold Fish' is a pure schizophrenic rush of energy, whilst the more laid-back 'I Adore You' deals in a certain fragility. Guitars grind and grate on numerous tracks whilst others are more trip-hop influenced, moving into Bjork and tricky territory. 'Weeds' is stripped bare, with Kate singing beautifully and achingly over a gently guitar; 'The things I plant won't grow/ Yet the wild weeds flower in wind and snow'. A pain-ridden ,self-reflecting offering, Kate adds 'Nothing to be/ Nothing to prove/ Nowhere to go/ Nothing to lose', perhaps giving us a cautious insight into her feelings about her future path.
That path looks pretty well laid to me. Cautious she might be, but look back she must not. (8/10)
Steve from Asian Dub Foundation recently made the observation that "some of the greatest music ever has come out of social awareness" and he would be correct. The Clash, Sex Pistols, Public Enemy, Nirvana, and so many of the bands that belonged to reggae, punk and early hip-hop were so powerful and timeless due to their social awareness and empowering music. Asian Dub Foundation are perhaps the most essentially political and musically superior act in the world currently, fighting the fascisms and injustices of the globe.
So what of Rage Against The Machine, metal's most political, provoking and currently ground-breaking band? For years now, the band as a collective unit have been putting action where their beliefs lie. Protests against censorship, the plight of Mexican rebels, animal torture, police racism and brutality, and probably the lack of pedestrian crossings across your road, have all featured in frontman Zack De La Rocha and company's rantings and ravings. They are determined on getting people to become knowledgable on the horrors that are rife in the world and use their gifted voices and musical talents to take their stands to the people that matter and that can act. Quite simply, these guys are exciting. They rock, man.
As a musical force, Rage have still yet to join the elites, despite their breathtaking dynamics, their insightful lyrics and the musical revolution of their genre they spearheaded when they began slamming together rock and rap back in 1991. Certainly, their self-titled debut was a classic that spawned sledgehammer anthems such as 'Bullet In The Head' and 'Killing In The Name', but the follow-up, 'Evil Empire' was widely attacked for its lame riffs and lacklustre energy. More to the point, some critics have been enraged by the fact that Rage are directly responsible for the downtuned sound that gave birth to the likes of Korn and Limp Bizkit. Personally, I think the imitators should merely be mocked in the shadow of the masters.
'The Battle of Los Angeles' is a giant leap in the desired direction for Rage fans. Perhaps best described as a cross between the previous two albums, 'The Battle...' is a further political tidal wave that avoids being didactic. Gloriously, this is accompanied by a gruesome and grinding musical assault. The riffs crunch, the melodies groove in the usual Rage funky style and the lyrics affect you within. Check out 'Born Of A Broken Man' for starters, a haunting blend of extreme dynamics which acts as an eerie background for the lyrics which touch upon the evils of organised religion. 'Calm Like A Bomb' is more blatant, laying down a fat (phat?) attention-grabbing riff with Rocha snapping furiously over the top. The titles tell you all you need to understand about the current concerns of Rage's political psyche; 'Voice Of The Voiceless' and 'New Millenium Homes' demonstrating that the band have done anything but ignore the cruelty of modern capitalist society in the years since 'Evil Empire', if such a thing were possible. Despite the album lacking a certain amount of variation and droning on a little towards the end, Rage still know how to excite and motivate.
Little changes in the world of Rage Against The Machine. Same style, same politics, same approach and still putting their beliefs into direct action. Yet when a soul-sucking, corporate mechanical society full of injustice never changes, why should rage ever cease raging? (7/10)
Whilst Tairrie B is trying so hard to tear down the horrid and patronising stereotypes that exist in the regressive genre of nu-metal, Kittie are doing everything to back the misogynistic male mainstream metallers to the hilt.
Initally, Kittie appear a delightful prospect. They rage at being labelled sluts just because they are women who stand on stage, occassionally in revealing clothing, on 'Do YOu Think I'm A Whore?'. Meanwhile, 'Spit' is a gargantuan blast at macho attitudes, with teenage singer Morgan snarling "Why do I get shit/ All the time/ Off you men/ You are swine/ You think dick is the answer/ But it's not". At their tender ages, such anger and intent to change the constraints of society is fantastic, but on a closer analysis the message seems to fall flat and bury itself under a dirt of cliche.
You see, KiTTiE WriTE TheIR sLeEve nOTEs LiKE tHis because they are so DysFUnctIONaL. Kittie have not taken their stance whole-heartedly, opting instead to play the safe and reliable game of image that dominants metal in modern times. This makes a mockery of any well-intended angsty lyrics. Kittie want to be percieved as troubled, too mental for society, shuddered at by the mainstream. Opting for the necessary hair-dye check-list and piercing make-overs, they think they can achieve this.
So the Eminem's and all the downtuned metal masses march on with soaring sales and booming egos, unchallenged by the claws of Kittie. However, if Kittie should ever realise what is really important about music, and being so young they yet might, we will have a savage tiger of a band scraping their nails into the backs of the nasty. (5/10)