Many moons ago, in a story far too long to relate here, I met a man named Maxwell. And while I was throughly impressed by his musical knowledge (he's encyclopedic, I tell ya...) and his amazing taste in food and drink, what impressed me most about him was the fact that he could drop into any conversation anywhere and fit right in. He's a drinker and a talker and a hell of a writer. So please join me in welcoming him to the site and checking out his new column "Picking Through The Wreckage With A Stick"

--finn

I like a lot of different music. That’s nothing to brag about when you spend a good chunk of what you make on that and a handful of other geeky interests, when you’re the kind of guy who gets more excited about a remastered reissue of PIL’s Metal Box on vinyl than grown-up shit like, say, buying a house. It’s an illness. Don’t emulate.

That said, sometimes a guy’s in the mood for Cannibal Ox, sometimes Nick Drake. This week I’ve been feeling some of the louder and heavier shit I’ve picked up recently.

First up for discussion is Alabama Thunderpussy’s latest, Open Fire (Relapse Records). Gotta hand it to these guys, it’s a freakin’ corker. I’ve always liked them, and I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t heard the last few albums, so I don’t know exactly when the shift from southern boogie-tinged stoner rock to full-on raging Metal came, but it’s a damn fine fit. (You’d think the half-naked barbarian dude on the cover with blood-drenched mace and sword while knee-deep in hectic slaughter would’ve tipped me off. I can be thick like that.) No one really gets psyched when a band they like replaces a singer, but new guy Kyle Thomas belts it out like a champ. There’s still some southern flavor, but the thrash ‘n groove of these tunes smacks you around the way all good Metal should, sans cheese. It’s a mighty enough record that the Frazetta-style painting kinda makes sense after a spin or two. Songs about greed, valor, distrust…and I can pretty much guarantee “Whiskey War” will be stuck in my head for the rest of the summer. Kudos to guitarist Erik Larson for leaving Avail to devote his full attention to this first-class outfit. (Finding an Avail fan over 15 is a tough task, like trying to find any relevance about Paris Hilton.)

Also had the good fortune to come across a reissue of the 1969 self-titled album by Morgen on Probe/ABC Records. (Thanks, Forced Exposure!) Apparently back in the day this was some privately pressed release of like, 2 copies. (OK, an exaggeration, but all these “private press” re-releases hitting stores these days get hyped with lines like “Originals go for $300+!” and “An edition of 100 copies made”. And of course, words like “legendary” get thrown around. And you think to yourself, dang, I’ve been a hardcore music nerd since I was like, 15, reading magazines and scouring websites that make me pretty much unlovable to all but my mom and other losers that have to step around piles of records and comic books just to get to my bed. How come I never heard of this? Then you make lists of stuff to check out in tiny little notebooks that look like the scribblings of freakin’ Jeffrey Dahmer to the outside observer. Seriously, my girlfriend must dredge up patience from a vast and bottomless well. Love ya, baby!)

Listening to Morgen, it’s hard not to taste a little Cream in the mix. The way the bass thumps and the drums roll, there’s a certain familiarity about it all when you first drop the needle on this one, but it’s such a comfortable and inviting sound, it’s hard not to get sucked in. By the time opener “Welcome to the Void” gets to the chorus, you realize you’ve found a crushed velvet suit jacket in the back of the thrift store, but goddam it looks cool and feels great. Not exactly revolutionary, but classic. If they threw some shit like this in the mix on “classic rock” radio instead of the same 40 songs ad nauseum it’d actually be worth tuning in.

To be fair, it doesn’t actually sound like Cream. The songs are more psychedelic than bluesy, and band leader Steve Morgen’s guitar has a different kind of sting. The way the Stooges get tagged “proto-punk” you could probably call a tune like “Of Dreams” proto-shoegaze (if you’re a special kind of ass like me), the way it floats and la-la-las along in a light fuzzy haze. No idea what kinda shit these boys were diggin’ on in 1969, but it sounds like the right stuff.

From there we’ll head down the pike to one of the boners sitting in this stack o’ wax in front of me. It actually hurts a little to put this on after the Morgen LP. I got suckered into this Crippled Black Phoenix 10” (Invada Records) by three things: pretty snazzy name, the pedigree of the folks involved (members of Electric Wizard and Mogwai?), and the fact the announcement of its arrival screamed “limited to 500 copies!” Well, crap, I better jump on that before it’s gone! If I don’t act now, I’ll probably never be able to find it for less than 50 bucks someday!

Yeah. I can be a royal dumbass sometimes. This little record, and the $11.99 or so that I could’ve turned into a case of PBR are reminders.

The sleeve’s a nifty cardboard job reminiscent of those ones Bruce Licher designs for his Independent Project press. Much more interesting than the snooze you’ll find within. The description made it sound like it’s some kind of loose experiment for these musicians normally associated with the heavier end of things. Of course, the website I “scored” it from didn’t review it like they usually do the stuff they carry. I’m reasonably sure the description came straight from the record label, cut and paste, ‘cause I trust the folks at All That’s Heavy. They’ve been good to me, these purveyors of sludge from Stonerrock.com. What I expected was some weirdo Current 93-style industrialfolkdrone, the kind of music that’s usually made by social outcasts in a room barely lit by candles dripping wax everywhere while they’re on a mission to put the sounds in their heads on tape before they float into the ether, lost forever. On a mission…and mushrooms. What I got isn’t terrible per se, but it sure brings the Boring. I’m holding this pretty unique-looking package with two long songs, one of which is titled “Shark & Storms/Blizzard of horned cats” in my hot little hands, fully expecting something that’ll beat the snot out of wussy piano-rock like Coldplay. But my grandmother could do that blindfolded. And she’s dead. Acoustic guitar picking, some piano, some strings, and I’m pretty sure I heard the dude say something about “some analogy of my disposition”, then “you go in light, you fall in love and you drown.” Then a bunch of “oohhhhh” as the song builds a little to what’s supposed to be some kind of crescendo. Maybe I’m not giving it a fair shake due to my high hopes, but I’ve listened to it about four times now. Still don’t give a fuck.

For the real deal, you’re gonna have to get ahold of Altar (Southern Lord), the sunnO)))/Boris collaboration. (And then bust out the candles and mushrooms.) A pretty unique experience that blends elements of both bands while not really sounding like either, it’s most definitely not for everyone. Tones and sounds shift and phase and rumble, creating an atmosphere of dread like few things I’ve heard before. It’s sure as hell not catchy, you won’t hear “hooks”...a lot of people probably wouldn’t even call it music. Those people can kiss my ass. The open-minded, those open to the sheer possibility of sound, will get it. Now…the track that stands out for me in this creepy sonic nightmare (a good thing, don’t misunderstand) goes by the name of “The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)”. Unexpectedly, it’s sung by Jesse Sykes, a fine artist in her own right, but leaning more towards the country side of things, kinda surprised to find her here. The song’s a melancholy dirge, and beautiful and haunting in a way I can’t even really begin to describe. The first time I heard it, it captured me in a way few things have recently. Maybe I just can’t resist the Boris folks’ quietly controlled electric guitar strumming, maybe it’s the way Stephen O’Malley taps the piano keys at the end less and less until there’s finally silence, or maybe I’m still thinking about a recent death that was due to truly shitty circumstances, I don’t know. Fuck. All I know is I’m borderline obsessed with this song and I’ve listened to it almost every night since I got Altar.

Make your own decision. You owe it to yourself to hear it at least once.

I’m turning this short bus around now, 180 degrees, headed straight back to Disappointmentville. It’s my own fault for never hearing Place of Skulls before ordering the Love Through Blood EP (Blood and Iron Records). The first album, the one with Scott “Wino” Weinrich in the band…didn’t hear it. Nothing ‘til this one, but with Victor Griffin behind the wheel, it’s gotta be OK, right? I mean, when he played guitar for Pentagram in the 70s, even ‘though nobody paid much attention to a bunch of Black Sabbath/Blue Cheer worshiping misfits from D.C., they mined some damn fine hard rock. Damn fine, I says.
At some point since then he became a big ol’ born again Christian. Which, according to common knowledge, usually means if you’re a musician your recorded work is about to become the equivalent of aural feces. I’ve seen that Jebus-rock infomercial that says millions of young folks actually want that in their ears. I’d rather have a sharp dagger in mine, thanks. But wait…I mean, I have that Victor Griffin solo album that’s not bad at all, especially for a bunch of demos. Well, hell, I’ll check out Love Through Blood.

Take it out of the box, hey, it looks cool. Maybe it’s…..huh. All these lyrics printed on the back, they sure seem to mention “lord” and how great said guy is an awful lot. But I think I can handle that. Really…I mean, I can listen to tunes about orc attacks or trips to the dentist if they’re good, if there’s something worthwhile there. Some of my favorite stuff is dumb-as-a-sack-of-doorknobs bang bang thud thud rock ‘n roll, so I give it a shot. And, uh, it certainly sounds better than, say, Nickelback or Creed. Yeah, definitely a better sound than those chumps get. But, um…not so much better. Couple that with Mr. Griffin intoning shtick like “the holy spirit convicted my mind” and “you correct this evil man” and this one’s screaming for me to melt it into an ashtray. Last time I buy anything with a song called “The Blood of Jesus” on it unless it’s about throwing a bucket of it into Ann Coulter’s face. Ugh.

Oh, but speaking of blood and religion…the mighty Slayer recently got Dave Lombardo back on the drum kit, and the results are out there for all to hear in the form of Christ Illusion (American Recordings). Whether you’ve found them silly or scary, too extreme or just flat-out powerful, Slayer has always been a ballsy band, and they must be carting them bad boys around in wheelbarrows these days. If you’re putting out 10 songs and most of them point the finger at religion as pointless mythology that starts wars, not to mention possibly dragging the human race kicking and screaming right to the doorstep of the apocalypse, you’d better be prepared to catch some shit from a few people. Tack on the front of it a painting of a banged-up armless Jesus with an eye patch knee deep in blood, and you’ve got a product that would probably bunch up Tipper Gore’s panties more than anything Slayer did 20 years ago, when the general public thought a band like this was coming straight to eat your babies. Don’t worry that Slayer are concentrating on Christianity, though, as all faiths make it into their crosshairs. From “Cult”: Religion is hate / religion is fear / religion is war / Religion is rape / religion’s obscene / religion’s a whore.” Who else would make an anti-war album (and that is the big picture here, make no mistake) that so single-mindedly identifies one of the causes and then hunts it down so relentlessly, regardless of who’s offended? U2, in-between ipod commercials?

The music doesn’t tread any new ground, but that’s never been a bad thing with this group. Of all their peers who started thrashing away with them in the early 80s, nobody else’s output has been as consistently good. Sure, it’s not all Reign in Blood quality, but after 20+ years, pretty impressive they’ve stayed true to the path they themselves helped to blaze. Allmusic.com called it “brilliant, stomping, scorched-earth thrash metal at it’s best.” And hallelujah for that!

Join me next time as I chronicle my adventures in a week of confession because I listen to Slayer, and we’ll examine the value of writing “shit” 400 times in an article that’s only a few pages long.

Maxwell Custer is the new kid. Picking Through The Wreckage With A Stick will appear weekly on Thursdays.

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