Blind Guardian: Somewhere Far Beyond

BLIND GUARDIAN: SOMEWHERE FAR BEYOND (1992)

1) Time What Is Time; 2) Journey Through The Dark; 3) Black Chamber; 4) Theatre Of Pain; 5) The Quest For Tanelorn; 6) Ashes To Ashes; 7) The Bard's Song: In The Forest; 8) The Bard's Song: The Hobbit; 9) The Piper's Calling; 10) Somewhere Far Beyond.

Not a lot of progression happened in between this album and the previous one: rather, the band just seems so happy with their perfected formula that they try it out one more time, just to see if it all really comes naturally to them now. There is a little more acoustic guitar (in fact, the album opens with an acoustic intro, which is why I remembered), a little more keyboards and additional instruments (including a whole swarm of bagpipes on ʽThe Piper's Callingʼ), but really, these are all just minor nuances: the core of the formula stays sanctified for now.

Under such circumstances, it only makes sense to talk about individually striking songs if they are present, and this is a little more complicated than before — after several listens, only two of them seem to naturally stick around. The ultimate highlight of the album, and one of Blind Guar­dian's greatest ever songs, is ʽAshes To Ashesʼ — ironically, the only song on the album to com­memorate a real event rather than reflect some literary fantasy, namely, the passing of Hansi Kürsch's father. Blind Guardian's major know-how now is all about ensuring a blazing transition from speedy verse to anthemic chorus, and ʽAshes To Ashesʼ totally satisfies: as the group cuts down the maniacal tempo and enters with the solemn "ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." requiem bit, the hand of doom does materialize in the mind — and Kürsch's decisive conclusion of "time... isn't here to stay!" might be one of the single fiercest accappella power metal lines sung in the history of the genre. At the very least, when it comes to power metal, I have yet to hear a more impressive ode to the mercilessness of time in this style.

Other than ʽAshes To Ashesʼ, one more spot where this approach (ride your flash metal train at the speed of light, then smash it right into the solid wall of a stately martial chorus) works very well is ʽThe Quest For Tanelornʼ: lyrically, the song is based on some usual nonsense from Michael Moorcock, but «physically», the transition is pretty mind-blowing, as the band almost ends up transforming itself into Yes for a few bars, before heading back to the surface and con­tinuing the mad mad ride. Unfortunately, the anthemic chorus feels sort of underdeveloped — the line "on our quest for Tanelorn..." is sung with such epic gusto that you almost feel a bit cheated when, several bars later, they just resume the chugga-chugga as if it were all just a dream. Still, the trick works, there's no denying it.

Arrangement-wise, the most bombastic piece on the album is ʽTheatre Of Painʼ, based on Poul Anderson's The Merman's Children — taken at a significantly slower tempo than usual, drenched in orchestra-substituting synthesizers, going through several complex sections and providing Kürsch with a suitable background to properly display all his theatrical capacities: I am still not sure of whether to laugh at the hysterical pathos of "Now I'm gone... and it seems that LIFE HAD NEVER EXISTED!..." or to bow down to its sheer energy, since, after all, I have never sworn allegiance to operatic metal delivery, but then again, this guy really does bring the dial all the way over to eleven, which at least makes this a better proposition than, say, Queensryche.

On the other hand, regular speed monsters such as ʽJourney Through The Darkʼ and the title track fail to do much for me except confirm that I am, indeed, listening to yet another Blind Guardian album. More interesting is the two-part experiment of ʽThe Bardʼ, where the first part is an acous­tic round-the-campfire anthem and the second part is a bombastic metal rocker and they are es­sentially set to the same melody — the experiment has not only earned the band their nickname (ʽThe Bardsʼ), but its second part is probably the heaviest song ever recorded about a hobbit. Still, as a purely musical piece, it is no great shakes, really.

If you get the expanded CD edition of the album, you do get an additional highlight — a magni­ficently sung cover of Queen's ʽSpread Your Wingsʼ, one of those power ballads that I've always liked, because it evokes a genuine feeling of power (and freedom) rather than a fake imitation, and the band offers a very tasteful «metallization» with Kürsch at his very best, adding a bit of guttural roar to the arrogant snappiness he takes over from Freddie's delivery. In fact, sacrilegious as it may seem, I would hardly have anything against Blind Guardian including covers on their original LPs, mixing them with their own compositions (something like that would be forth­coming on The Forgotten Tales, but that one's a compilation of a dubious nature, so it doesn't really count) — they have a good nose for catchy material that they can adapt for their own pur­poses, and the fact that they even did ʽBarbara Annʼ shows that they can be... flexible?

Upon careful consideration, I do give the album a thumbs up. Its passable material is never­theless energetic and listenable, and its highlights, like ʽAshes To Ashesʼ, deserve to be enshrined in the great metal treasury. That said, I have no idea what some people mean when they speak of the band's «great leap forward» — to use a suitable metal analogy, I'd say this is their Piece Of Mind coming right after their Number Of The Beast: a respectable, but not particularly amazing or surprising follow-up to a classic in the same style. 

Black Sabbath: 13

BLACK SABBATH: 13 (2013)

1) End Of The Beginning; 2) God Is Dead?; 3) Loner; 4) Zeitgeist; 5) Age Of Reason; 6) Live Forever; 7) Damaged Soul; 8) Dear Father; 9*) Naivete In Black; 10*) Methademic; 11*) Peace Of Mind; 12*) Pariah.

I really don't want to get mad about this album. It is nothing but admirable, how, after all the in­cessant talks and all the innumerable get-togethers, and with Tony's cancer, and with Ozzy's, well, ozzmosis, they still managed to get together one more time, after more than a decade of beating around the bush, and come up with enough songs to fill up an LP and still have some to spare as bonus tracks for special editions. So they lost Bill Ward at the last moment over some financial disagreements, replacing him with session man Brad Wilk, which technically makes the experi­ence incomplete, but still, three out of the original four ain't that bad.

I also admire the decision to make a thoroughly «nostalgic» album. Had they decided that it was time they «caught on», borrowing from nu-metal, rap-metal, Babymetal, or any of the latest trends in heavy music, the results would probably have been catastrophic. As it is, their decision was simple. Nothing whatsoever in heavy music beats the quality of early classic Black Sabbath — so let's just cut the crap and make another early classic Black Sabbath album, as if it were 1970 all over again. In fact, on a hilarious note, the last track of the LP, ʽDear Fatherʼ, ends with the rain and thunder sounds of ʽBlack Sabbathʼ (the song) — which could be interpreted as if 13 were supposed to be the prequel to Black Sabbath! It ain't 1970, it's really 1969.

I also admire Ozzy, to an extent. Never mind how the man let himself become a silly symbol, first of the crazy sensationalist excesses of the «rock and roll lifestyle», then of the crass exploitative machinery of rock journalism and MTV gluttony. In the end, he used them as much as they used him — and retained his integrity along with his madness. It is him, not Tony or Geezer, that comes out as the true hero of 13, singing about individual and collective crises of the 21st century not as the protagonist of The Osbournes, but as somebody who is even more haunted by his de­mons these days than at the start of his career. Maybe he isn't, but he truly sounds like he is, and deep down inside, I do believe that he really is. In any case, if there is one wisp, one tiny strand of mystery in any cell of 13, it is to be sought in Ozzy's performance. When he asks, "is God alive or is God dead?", you have to know it really matters to the guy.

All of this makes up for enough admiration not to condemn the record, and to safely recommend it to veteran fans of the band. Problems should start, though, if you are a youngster who'd only vaguely heard of Black Sabbath and are merely wishing to check the record out because, well, it's fresh and everything. Trying to recapture the old vibe is fine for all if we remember and cherish the old vibe — but should 13 happen to be anybody's introduction to Black Sabbath, this would be a major mistake with consequences that would be very hard to clean up. Likewise, if you are expecting an album of the same quality as the «first six», don't. You probably aren't, but you might still subconsciously hope for a miracle. Kill off your subconscious.

Miracles do not happen, and Tony «the human riff» Iommi is not going to grow himself an extra brain component just because he is suddenly working with his old pals again. Every single melody on this album sounds like a variation on something from his past — an inferior variation — with the exception of cases where the melody sounds like a variation on somebody else's past (for instance, the riff to ʽLonerʼ is closely reminiscent of the stage riff that Pete Townshend would frequently employ circa 1970-72 in the «jam section» of ʽMy Generationʼ). Producer Rick Rubin has unjustly borne the grunt of most of the reviewers' complaints for participating in the «loudness wars» and overcompressing the sound on the record, but it is not the production that is the music's worst enemy here — it is the lack of interesting ideas.

One doesn't need to go any further than the opening DOOM-laden chords of ʽEnd Of The Begin­ningʼ — a brief perusal of memory cells reveals that this is a simplified re-run of the introductory riff from ʽYou Won't Change Meʼ, furthermore played in alternating loud and quiet fashions so as to revive the «feel» of ʽBlack Sabbathʼ. The tradition is loyally obeyed, but the excitement, as you can understand, is minimal. As you go from there, into the different sections of the same song as well as subsequent ones, direct predecessors become a little harder to find, but the feeling rests the same: it's as if Tony is drawing upon his own past for inspiration, and that is the primary difference — when he was coming up with the riffs of ʽIron Manʼ or ʽInto The Voidʼ or ʽSymp­tom Of The Universeʼ, he wasn't browsing for ideas in the «Tony Iommi Handbook of Great Riffs». But now he is — and from that point of view, is no better or no worse than any mildly talented teenager who «hates the crappy music of today» and wants to «write swell music just like those cool guys in Black Sabbath did thirty years ago».

Again, I do not discard, in theory, the possibility that shifting a few old chords around might have resulted in impressive combinations, easily visualized as more metal Godzillas or giant snakes or Satan coming 'round the bend. But in practice, they do not. The spiralling grumble of ʽLive Foreverʼ might possibly come close, but I may simply be enticed by its fast tempo and steady beat rather than real musical essence. At the end of the day, not a single riff from this record has managed to take root in my head, not even after three or four listens — and this is a record that is all about riffs, from start to finish. Where is the goddamn magic? "Is this the end of the begin­ning — or the beginning of the end?"

The vocal melodies are, in fact, more memorable than the riffs — so damn ironic, considering how in the past Ozzy would simply sing the riff, to save himself the extra trouble. As I already mentioned, his performance on ʽGod Is Dead?ʼ is outstanding, as he totally gets into the spirit of the "if there is no God, everything is permitted?" Dostoyevsky vibe. ʽZeitgeistʼ, a moody acoustic ballad that is an oh-so-blatant attempt at re-summoning the vibe of ʽPlanet Caravanʼ (right down to Tony playing a similarly stylized jazz guitar solo), has Ozzy getting into a Major Tom-type character, ruminating about the fate of humanity from above, beyond, and without any other re­presentatives of said race — and enjoying every moment of it. And there is something disarming­ly simple, but convincing about his "don't wanna live forever, but I don't wanna die" that makes me suspect his old friend Geezer, this time around, was writing his lyrics specifically for Ozzy, or maybe even specifically about Ozzy.

This, and nothing else, is 13's saving grace: where Tony is trying to recapture his youth, and largely failing, Geezer as lyricist and Ozzy as singer are trying to come to terms with their old age, and largely succeeding. In fact, as simple and un-enigmatic as these lyrics are, I'd say they con­tain some of the finest verbal imagery Geezer had ever come up with — and they're all about death, death, death. "I don't mind dying, cause I'm already dead". Hey, it's Ozzy singing that, you can believe him all right. Could you believe Taylor Swift?

It's been a fascinating experience, really, listening to 13 — not because I enjoyed any of the songs but just because it opens up so many questions, Sabbath-related and general musical type alike. As in, why are some riffs better than others? When is a riff «impressive» and when is it «boring»? Is «running out of ideas» an inevitable outcome, or may there be exceptions? How come we may be intrigued and fascinated by certain singers who barely know how to sing, yet remain un­touched by certain «professionals»? At what point does a laughable, clichéd piece of lyrical content become hard-hitting? What are the flaws and benefits of aging when it comes to creating art? Why are these songs so goddamn long, and why don't I really see that as a major problem of the album? Why is it that I am asking all these questions here, is it that, at such a terminal stage in their career, Black Sabbath have finally managed to «get to me» with their middle school level philosophy of life, death, and everything in between? And — of course — is God really dead?..

I cannot give the album a thumbs up, of course — my fascination with Ozzy's behavior on it is not strong enough to redeem the toothless music — but I am pretty sure that, years from now, 13 will be regarded as a fairly adequate musical testament from the original band (provided they do not record anything else, which is not highly likely), if one limits oneself to viewing it as a musi­cal testament, emphasis on the T, and accepts that it really only works as a structural element — the completion of the circle, with fairly little independent value. Then again, I suppose the circle had to be completed, didn't it? And in any case, it is at least a bit more cohesive and sensible than Never Say Die! — speaking of which, it might be cooler, and truer, if they decided to name it Just Say Die, Already instead of 13 — what sort of title is that? This isn't even the thirteenth BS album with Ozzy, they just waited until 2013 to release it. Feels like cheating. 

Bob Marley: Catch A Fire

BOB MARLEY: CATCH A FIRE (1973)

1) Concrete Jungle; 2) Slave Driver; 3) 400 Years; 4) Stop That Train; 5) Rock It Baby; 6) Stir It Up; 7) Kinky Reggae; 8) No More Trouble; 9) Midnight Ravers.

And now we see The Wailers get in the big league. From a certain justified point of view, this is where Bob Marley «sold out to the system», making the jump from local Jamaican labels and the local Jamaican market to a major label (Island Records, which, not coincidentally, was founded by Chris Blackwell in 1959 on Jamaica, but had been operating from London as early as 1962, and was not at all limited to ska/reggae by the time Marley signed his contract) and to an inter­national audience — Catch A Fire got all the way up to #171 on the Billboard charts, and Mar­ley's commercial stance would only be toughening up since then, all the way to Exodus.

More importantly, and somewhat predictably, the jump was accompanied by a significant change in sound. In order to properly put Bob on the international scene, some concessions would have to be made: listeners worldwide, it was deemed, would hardly have the assiduous tolerance for the «hardcore reggae» approach of Lee Perry, meaning that the songs would have to be a little more «pop», and the arrangements would have to be a little less Spartan. After The Wailers had recorded the master tapes in Jamaica and brought them over to Chris Blackwell in London, the latter took the decision to «spice 'em up», hiring a host of session musicians, such as Wayne Per­kins on guitar and Rabbit Bundrick on keyboards, to generate ear-pleasing overdubs that would put that stuff more in line with the commercial sounds of the Seventies. Marley, ever the vigilante man, sensitive to trends and striving for world recognition, did not object — yet I am not so sure about how Peter Tosh reacted to the whole thing, and whether that was not one of the reasons for the beginning of his alienation from Marley.

Nevertheless, I will admit to the «embarrassing» reality — I do find the Wailers with extra over­dubs more accessible, and I do find these overdubs in very good taste. Case in point: ʽStir It Upʼ, one of Bob's most charming, tenderest reggae ballads, has a wah-wah lead from Wayne Perkins that utilizes a gruff, grumbly tone to play a suitably tender part, and adds an extra individual voice to the beautiful, but repetitive group harmonies of the chorus. Would the song have become a hit without that lead guitar, or without Tyrone Downie's organ accompaniment? Possibly, pos­sibly not, and who cares about the exact number of sold copies anyway: the important thing is, these additional layers steal nothing from the «base» of the song, but add quite a lot. Naysayers may go back to the original two-chord ska version from 1967 — just remember that, had all of Bob Marley's output been like that original version, most likely, very few of us would have ever heard of who the hell Bob Marley was in the first place.

Quite a few other songs here are oldies as well, including both of the Tosh-sung numbers (ʽ400 Yearsʼ and ʽStop That Trainʼ) — these ones, curiously, are taken at much slower tempos than the originals, sung and played with less energy, but more «soul», that is, not necessarily with more feeling but a bit more in line with what is usually expected of the experienced soul singer / show­man. This makes them no better or worse, just a little different, but ʽStop That Trainʼ does get an extra guitar riff that makes the song even more memorable.

That said, the album is really all about its first two tracks — ʽConcrete Jungleʼ and ʽSlave Driverʼ. The former is as highly tragic as Marley can ever get, putting his optimism aside for a moment and lamenting about the impossibility of escaping from this «concrete jungle» (all the more ap­propriate considering the Wailers' temporary relocation to the big cities). Perkins adds another suitably wailing guitar solo to the track, but really it's all about Bob losing his head and shouting "illusion! confusion!" as if banishing by name the evil demons that have turned all our lives into such a wretched mess. As for ʽSlave Driverʼ, one of the most sparsely arranged tracks on the al­bum, well, what can be said? Other than this is probably one of the calmest, most self-contained «rebel anthems» ever recorded? "Slave driver, the table is turned, catch a fire, so you can get burned" — never was an extremist slogan presented before in such a catchy, collected, almost friendly singalong manner.

Catch A Fire leaves plenty of space to explore the Wailers' non-political side — besides ʽStir It Upʼ, there's also the equally catchy and lovable ʽRock It Babyʼ, and ʽKinky Reggaeʼ is one of those novelty numbers that veers between total absurdity and presentation of society's flipside — but it ends more or less the same way it begins, with the anthemic ʽNo More Troubleʼ demanding to give peace and love a chance and the arousing ʽMidnight Raversʼ offering a rather uncomfy apocalyptic vision, ten thousand chariots without horses and all. Clearly, there is a strong sense of purpose here: Bob knew that the album had to break in him and his message, and so there is an extra «push» to this record that would gradually weaken and abate with the coming years, right until Exodus when Bob would give himself the next such push.

Not coincidentally, Catch A Fire consistently occupies one of the top spots in the ratings of Marley's catalog — a turn of events with which it is very hard to disagree. A great, diverse, in­spiring job from everybody, starting with the Wailers' core and ending with the understanding session musicians (Wayne Perkins, apparently, did not know a thing about reggae when he was asked to contribute, yet he got into the spirit immediately), and a very natural thumbs up.

Blue Öyster Cult: Extraterrestrial Live

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: EXTRATERRESTRIAL LIVE (1982)

1) Dominance And Submission; 2) Cities On Flame; 3) Dr. Music; 4) The Red And The Black; 5) Joan Crawford; 6) Burnin' For You; 7) Roadhouse Blues; 8) Black Blade; 9) Hot Rails To Hell; 10) Godzilla; 11) Veteran Of The Psychic Wars; 12) E.T.I. (Extra Terrestrial Intelligence); 13) (Don't Fear) The Reaper.

Okay, so maybe Blue Öyster Cult do need that many live albums out, if only to demonstrate how far they had evolved as a touring act over the decade — just as far, actually, as they'd evolved as a studio band, from once having been a tough, experimental, tightly focused meta-hard-rock act to now realising the wet dreams of Spinal Tap fanbase right there on the stage. On Extraterres­trial Live, it's «rock and roll burlesque» all the way.

Not that I really mind. By 1982, the band was so grotesquely over the top that only the most hateful listener, or the most naïve listener, could suspect them of being serious in their approach. The whole concert was basically one big circus show — so that founding member Albert Bouchard, who was either kicked out or left inimicably halfway through the tour, should have been glad to be deprived of the dubious honor of participating in this debacle. And yet, there is something delightfully silly about how they re-deconstruct their already deconstructed material and poke irreverent fun at themselves, their music, the audience, and the «rock mentality» even as they give out the superficial impression of embracing it.

Invocations to the great power of rock and roll start immediately, right from the hysterical "one two three four!" that opens ʽDominance And Submissionʼ. Then, taking over from the departed Bouchard on vocals, Eric Bloom gleefully salivates over the words "rock and roll" in ʽCities On Flameʼ — and then there's simply no stopping the band, particularly on ʽGodzillaʼ and an extended cover of the Doors' ʽRoadhouse Bluesʼ, which they try to turn from a mere «epic» track into a multi-mega-arch-epic powerhouse-of-a-track, adding extra repetitions of the "let it roll" section and a lengthy monolog on the details of the process of waking up and getting myself a beer. Meanwhile, ʽGodzillaʼ, complete with a spoken warning about the nuclear peril, finally de-cloaks itself as a contemporary update of ʽWild Thingʼ, but hip enough to quote ʽMilk Cow Bluesʼ in the instrumental section. In short, it's all a madhouse.

There is one serious reason to own this record, though: Buck Dharma. You could always count on that guy to save the band out of a tight spot, and on this record, he seems like the only member who can still remember what a proper straight face looks like. His playing throughout is awesome, but nowhere more so than on the lengthy solo in the middle of ʽVeteran Of The Psychic Warsʼ: with little warning, they suddenly pick up the tempo and let Mr. Roeser explode in a super-fast, flashy passage that is totally overflowing with passion and ecstasy — unquestionably one of the best ever guitar solos captured on a live album, period. Even though he did not write the original song, he must have sensed its potential — that, despite its Moorcock origins, it was really that one sci-fi tune in the band's catalog that could have a universal application, Cold War and Viet­nam associations included — and he gave it his due.

In addition, just like their preceding two live offerings, Extraterrestrial Live also serves as a marking time album, closing the door on the «third age» of Blue Öyster Cult — the band as sea­soned veteran cosmic rockers with a penchant for campy excess and arena-oriented bombast, towards which they re-orient even their older material. Little did anybody suspect to what sort of depths this band would soon plummet, even if in retrospect, it does look fairly predictable that 1981-1982 would just have to be the last years where good taste and common sense could at least occasionally prevail over market demands, or at least go hand-in-hand with them. In memory of that, let us conclude the review with a big fat thumbs up («big fat» being a reference to the overall sound of the record, not the emphatic nature of the thumbs up in question).

Aphex Twin: SYRO

APHEX TWIN: SYRO (2014)

1) Minipops 67 (Source Field mix); 2) XMAS_EVET10 (Thanaton3 mix); 3) Produk 29; 4) 4 Bit 9d Api+e+6; 5) 180db_; 6) CIRCLONT6A (Syrobonkus mix); 7) Fz Pseudotimestretch+e+3; 8) CIRCLONT14 (Shrymoming mix); 9) Syro U473t8+e (Piezoluminescence mix); 10) PAPAT4 (Pineal mix); 11) S950tx16wasr10 (Earth Portal mix); 12) Aisatsana.

Let us meet a few conditions. First, you are Richard D. James, a.k.a. Aphex Twin. Second, you have not had a «proper» new long-playing album out in thirteen years. Third, your latest album features you not dicking around without a head on your shoulders, but actually diligently doing your thing. Fourth, you put a receipt that details the complete production costs of your album on its front cover. With all these conditions met, how could SYRO be released to anything other than universal acclaim on the part of critics and veteran fans alike?

However, since this here site is known to operate under a strict «no-bull» policy, I would like to try and assess the values and virtues of this record as if that thirteen-year gap never existed. If you remember, Richard's last proper LP, DrukQs, was met with a relatively lukewarm reception — sometimes branded as too long, sometimes as too monotonous, sometimes as too unjustly focused on electronic percussion, overall, not one of his better efforts. Now what would have been the reception for SYRO, had it come out in 2002 instead of 2014? If we didn't all have to wait that long, begging The Master to please please please come back, and show us the way?

I had to actually go back and refresh some of the «classic» Aphex Twin numbers, from ʽGreen Calxʼ all the way down to ʽCome To Daddyʼ, in order to understand why my senses could only perceive SYRO as one large, unterminable, irritating bore. It is better than DrukQs, for sure, if only because the emphasis has been shifted away from fussy funky percussion and put back on tonal sounds — Richard D. James may be a master of his own groove, but his best work had always had a positively melodic side to it. However, calling SYRO a «melodic» album would clash way too hard with my naïve world view, and I won't do it.

Where some of Richard's work used to be awesomely otherworldly, and some of his other work used to be hilariously nightmarish, and some of his other work just made you stop right there and think «I have no idea what this ʽmeansʼ, but it sounds so different and so cool, why hasn't any­body else thought of that before?», SYRO does none of these things to me. Predictably, it is complex (and made even more complex by the frequent use of processed vocal overdubs), it is «intelligently danceable», and it even makes an effort to be diverse, but (a) there is really nothing here the likes of which we hadn't heard before, be it from Richard himself or from a gazillion of his electronic followers, and (b) more importantly, these tracks do a fairly poor job of converting themselves into lasting impressions, or even short-lived impressions, for that matter.

Perhaps it is the fault of the production, which fails to give these tunes the required depth: just as it was on DrukQs, it all just sounds like an extended soundtrack to a generic video game, and even good headphones do not particularly help out to perceive anything breathtaking about these loops and ambient flourishes. But a much more likely solution is that the man is simply no longer driven by the fresh excitement of exploring uncharted waters, which was there in the 1980s and in the 1990s. «Exploration» is now reduced to «desperation», that is to say, silly gimmicks that serve as mental bookmarks rather than anything else —  «ʽCIRCLONT14ʼ? Oh, you mean the one where they wispily chant no-so-chkeeee, no-so-chkeeee, no-so-chkeeee all the way through?» (For the record, nosochki literally means ʽlittle socksʼ in Russian, and this is hardly a phonetic coincidence, since there are other Russian phrases occasionally scattered in the mixes as well — a 25th-frame-type trick, no doubt about that; Her Majesty's Secret Service should probably start investigating whether the man has been put on Putin's secret payroll).

Naturally, it would be illogical to expect the man — not just after such a long break per se, but after a long break during which his electronic feats and wonders, once upon a time a jawdropping force like no other, have become a normal part of our collective conscious — it would be illogical to expect him to have the power to stun the world once more. Electronic wonders are as much of a rarity these days as any other type of wonders, and adventurousness and artistic flexibility do tend to decrease with age even if we're talking of geniuses. Yet, on the other hand, after such a long break, neither did I quite expect this former Napoleon to meet his musical Waterloo, no matter how many important critics will try their best to convince you that it is really his musical Austerlitz. Not «revolutionary», no, but gimme some emotion/impression/revelation, whatever. And no, nosochki does not count. And I don't play any video games these days, either.

One hour into this mess comes ʽAisatsanaʼ, the quiet ambient conclusion — a five-note piano phrase repeated over and over, sometimes with minor variations, pretending to long to be resol­ved until it finally is resolved with a couple extra chords at the end. Somehow, it seems to me to be symbolic of this entire album — a lengthy search for self-expression, pretending to be carried out on several different paths but really mainly following the same unoriginal, tired direction, and finally pretending to have reached its goal, but there never really was a goal. The whole thing is just boring, meaningless, and tedious, and if it took Mr. James thirteen years to come up with that, well, he might just spend the rest of his days growing vegetables as far as I'm concerned.

Seeing as how so many people give out radiant-glowing reviews to SYRO — even though I have not been able to find even a single one that would illuminate me on what exactly I have missed here — I do feel a responsibility to warn you not to take my rather vicious thumbs down at face value, and go and check it out for yourselves. Nevertheless, most of this review was written in a cool-calm-collected state and reflects my genuine feelings (or, rather, lack thereof) towards the album, so I am not just trying out a contrarian approach or anything. In the end, I guess we'll just have to wait until the Heroic Aureole wears off our hero a little bit, and see where SYRO is going to stand, say, in twenty or thirty years time, provided the world will last that long.

Blackmore's Night: Autumn Sky

BLACKMORE'S NIGHT: AUTUMN SKY (2010)

1) Highland; 2) Vagabond; 3) Journeyman; 4) Believe In Me; 5) Sake Of The Song; 6) Song And Dance; 7) Cellu­loid Heroes; 8) Keeper Of The Flame; 9) Night At Eggersberg; 10) Strawberry Girl; 11) All The Fun Of The Fayre; 12) Darkness; 13) Dance Of The Darkness; 14) Health To The Company; 15) Barbara Allen.

It looks as if Blackmore's Night are running out of inspiration for their album titles even faster than they are running out of songwriting ideas. Autumn Sky? What next, Winter Snow? Sum­mer Rain? Springtime For Hitler? Hmm, come to think of it, it might only be a matter of years before we hear a tenderheart Candice Night cover of ʽTomorrow Belongs To Meʼ — isn't that just the sort material that'd seem tailor-made for the lyrical duo?

Okay, that first paragraph was a bit nonsensical and maybe even in bad taste, but it is only be­cause I keep on running out of meaningful things to say about these records. And Autumn Sky is the very first LP by Blackmore's Night that does not feature even one distinguishable highlight. Of the endlessly interchangeable series of medievalesque ballads and baroque instrumentals, only ʽJourneymanʼ stands out, but in a bad way: it is a cover of a song by a Swedish folk-pop band, Nordman, borrowing their campy trick of merging a village dance melody with an electronic beat to a thoroughly embarrassing effect, almost as cringeworthy as ʽWriting On The Wallʼ on the first album. Next time we gather round the campfire, ladies and gentlemen, don't forget to bring along your trusty sampler — we don't want to give out the impression that we're still living in the Dark Ages, do we? Just imagine if Robin Hood's merry band had access to electronic drums...

There is yet another cover of another Swedish folk-pop band here — ʽHighlandʼ by One More Time, not as distinctively slap-in-your-face and somehow managing to evoke a bit of ABBA and a bit of stern Viking metal at the same time (the former mainly through Candice's vocal styliza­tions, and the latter through its anthemic, solemn pacing), but still fairly flat and dull, never quite fulfilling the promise of taking you up into those highlands. I suppose we should be grateful to Ritchie for digging out these obscure bands for us to deepen our knowledge, but the songs do not truly make me want to rush out and immerse myself in the contemporary Swedish folk-pop scene, or in any contemporary folk-pop scene, for that matter.

Even more disturbing, though, is the presence of a bunch of ballads like ʽBelieve In Meʼ, appa­rently self-written and rather modestly arranged — but their melodic foundation is that of a generic power ballad, meaning that the songs could have just as well been written by Diane Warren, and I could just see them delivered wild-and-loud on stage by a leotard-clad Cher, with smoke, fireworks, and ecstatic audience members setting each other on fire with their lighters and putting the fires out with rivers of tears. A power ballad like that is usually nauseating; but take the power out of the power ballad and what you're left with is just Dullsville.

Likewise, there is no doubt in my mind that Ritchie and Candice love Ray Davies' ʽCelluloid Heroesʼ — but goshdarnit, the song was never anything special as a piece of musical composition: what made it unforgettable was Ray's delivery, that hard-to-catch naïve tenderness in his voice as he managed to profoundly convey «a kid's affection» for each of the listed Hollywood heroes. Candice is friendly, too, but she just sings the words like a standard pro, and there is no special charisma here, none of that «little-man-comments-on-shadows-of-heroes» idea that made the song into one of the last Kinks classics.

Returning to the opening paragraph, I will let you in on a thoroughly unkept secret: they actually named the album after their daughter, Autumn Esmerelda Blackmore, born that same year and receiving her first musical gift from her happy parents three months later. That might actually explain things a bit — it is perfectly understandable that making good music was not the Black­more's first priority in 2010 — but it does not explain why they did not slap on an honest dis­claimer sticker, saying «for our adorable little offspring» and saving the common folks from yet another inevitable disappointment. Thumbs down. 

The Black Crowes: Croweology

THE BLACK CROWES: CROWEOLOGY (2010)

1) Jealous Again; 2) Share The Ride; 3) Remedy; 4) Non-Fiction; 5) Hotel Illness; 6) Soul Singing; 7) Ballad In Urgency; 8) Wiser Time; 9) Cold Boy Smile; 10) Under A Mountain; 11) She Talks To Angels; 12) Morning Song; 13) Downtown Money Waster; 14) Good Friday; 15) Thorn In My Pride; 16) Welcome To The Good Times; 17) Girl From A Pawnshop; 18) Sister Luck; 19) She; 20) Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye.

With an album title like that, I should have known better — but noooo, I just had to sit down and subject myself to it, out of professional-amateurish courtesy. Twice. Those four hours of my life I am never getting back, and since it is not highly likely that any of the Robinson brothers are offering me an apology any time soon (well, it's not like I bought the record or anything), please excuse me if the following several paragraphs sound rather bitter.

First, the objective facts. Croweology is the name of an album by The Black Crowes, spread over two CDs and, with the exception of one cover (ʽSheʼ from Gram Parsons' G. P.), featuring re-recordings of their older songs, mainly in «unplugged» acoustic versions, although some electric lead parts are occasionally present. All the tracks seem to have been produced «live in the studio», with a bit of audience participation at times (at least, there are a couple of small bursts of scat­tered applause on the first disc), but formally, the album is not «live» as such. And the track list concen­trates most heavily on the 1990-96 period, with only 2-3 tracks from later times and nothing at all from the Warpaint/Before The Frost era.

This segregation and reinvention brings a certain conceptual purpose to Croweology — seeing as how the band is now «mature» and «wisened up» and has been goin' up the country for several years with the speed of a groundhog fleeing from a tractor, it is only logical that they would de­cide to bring their old material «up to date». How do you make your peace with the world of corn fields and grass meadows and go on being ʽJealous Againʼ and needing your ʽRemedyʼ at the same time? You just dump the distortion and the loud bashing drums and you start looking for a way that would preserve the spirit and the energy of the original but would also introduce more subtlety and nuance into the performance. You begin rocking out in humble style. I mean, if Keith Richards in his prime could rock out with acoustic riffs, why not The Black Crowes in their mature, respectable years?

As clearly as (I think) I understand the purpose, its realisation predictably leaves a lot to be desired. Most of these songs weren't that good in the first place, and most of the changes intro­duced to convert them to this acoustic setting are in no hurry to make them any better. In brief, if you are already a fan, there is some chance that you will enjoy these reinventions, but if you «tolerated» rather than «enjoyed» the originals, you are most likely going to hate, hate, hate the way they handled them here. And that is concerning the rockers — when they start doing ballads, and they insist on dragging them out to seven, eight, nine-minute length, you'll be climbing up the frickin' walls, begging for mercy.

Yes, if you waste enough time on this, eventually you will begin noticing the little things they do here and there (like, for instance, making ʽGood Fridayʼ sound totally like Pink Floyd's ʽBreatheʼ in the intro part), and maybe even getting impressed by then. But why should you? Why should anybody? There is so much implicit pathetic self-aggrandizing on Croweology that it actually makes me sick. For some reason, it's as if these guys have ceremonially anointed themselves «the keepers of the flame», and each and every one of these tracks is even more self-consciously per­formed in the «All Hail The Grand Old Southern Rock Tradition Whose High Priests Are We» than their original versions. Not a shred of the slightly naughty, slightly ironic irreverence here that used to characterize even Lynyrd Skynyrd at their peak, let alone any of the better roots-rock bands out there. Not the tiniest modicum of a sense of humor.

If, for some reason, this happens to be the last of the band's studio LPs — a possibility, since they have not gone back into the studio in between 2010 and 2013, and have once again gone on hiatus since that period — fans will probably be pleased to treasure it as a nostalgic recapitulation or a musical testament. But to these skeptical ears, it is just one more unpleasant reminder of why The Black Crowes, at their very best, were only a «passable» band, and at their very worst, were so dreadfully boring and annoying that I'd rather listen to MTV-era Aerosmith instead: I mean, power ballads like ʽCryin'ʼ and ʽCrazyʼ are compositionally no worse than ʽShe Talks To Angelsʼ or ʽBad Luck Blue Eyesʼ, and their humble goal of describing Steve Tyler's unsatiable sex drive for hot young chicks, including his own daughter, is quite forgivable next to the unjustifiedly bloated spiritual ambitions of the Crowes. Maybe they just had the misfortune of being born into this world ten or fifteen years later than they should have, missing the right wave. Maybe. But that doesn't mean we have to go on listening to them out of chronological mercy, or that I would have to shift my thumbs down rating for this album to anything better just because this is the sound of a veteran professional band using — think of that! — acoustic guitars all the way.

Blind Guardian: Tales From The Twilight World

BLIND GUARDIAN: TALES FROM THE TWILIGHT WORLD (1990)

1) Traveler In Time; 2) Welcome To Dying; 3) Weird Dreams; 4) Lord Of The Rings; 5) Goodbye My Friend; 6) Lost In The Twilight Hall; 7) Tommyknockers; 8) Altair 4; 9) The Last Candle.

This is where «the legend of Blind Guardian» properly begins — although, frankly speaking, the difference between this album and Battalions Of Fear isn't nearly as huge as you'd think upon reading up on the band's evolution course. Nuance-wise, Tales features a bit more diversity, a tad more choral vocals, a trifle more epic vocals — but the «speed metal» core of the band is still intact, since the majority of these songs are taken at the usual breakneck tempos, and the melodic components are again limited to the songs' vocal melodies and Olbrich's classically influenced guitar leads. Perhaps the conventional wisdom that Tales moves away from «speed» and into «power» has to do with Kürsch's singing, as he tones down the growling elements and emphasi­zes the «tough romantic warrior» approach. Or maybe it is just the contrast with the far more «thrashing» Follow The Blind that preceded it.

Whatever. Genrist discussions aside, Tales is simply a very solid metal album, as solid as starry-eyed fantasy-centered metal albums ever get. This time, the band is all over the place: in addition to Tolkien and Stephen King, literary influences here include Frank Herbert and Peter Straub, not to mention that ʽGoodbye My Friendʼ is said to have been inspired by E.T. (although, frankly, the music would be more fit for Alien), and the last track has something to do with the universe of Dragonlance, something that should probably appeal to D&D fans. In short, these guys take their fantasy roots like real pros, not some chubby amateur who thinks himself a fantasy geek just because he had the nerve to include the word «goblin» in some line or other.

Not that it really matters, because in a world where Paul Atreides, Gandalf, and E.T. speak the exact same language, they could have just as well derived any of their stories from The Catcher In The Rye or The Penal Code Of Pakistan, whichever would be closer at hand. What does matter is that the choruses are their catchiest to date — occasionally in a dumb way, as the chorus to ʽTommyknockersʼ which recreates the nursery rhyme in King's novel ("late last night, and the night before..."), but more often, in an inspiring one.

ʽLost In The Twilight Hallʼ (yes, about Gandalf's wandering in between the worlds of the dead and the living) is a good example — the interaction between the band's choral vocals and Hansi's solo retorts is perfectly staged, with an unforgettable contrast in betwixt the pathos-filled "I'm lost in the twilight hall" and the final doom call of "...that's when the mirror's falling down". Just as memorable are the choruses to ʽWelcome To Dyingʼ and ʽThe Last Candleʼ — indeed, tremen­dously illustrative of what «power» can really mean within a «power metal» setting. Forget sub­tlety, forget nuance, forget emotional fluctuation, forget what all those words that they sing mean, literally or figuratively: it's all about churning out rocket-fueled anthemic slabs, with a full-on cavalry charge, blasting away with complete disregard of possible consequences. «Cheesy» or «campy» are words that have no meaning in the Blind Guardian army.

And, while I lack the proper qualification to write anything properly meaningful about the guitar work on this album, it is still necessary to put in at least a meaningless good word for Olbrich's melodic developments — perhaps best illustrated on tracks like ʽWeird Dreamsʼ, a short instru­mental that goes through an aggressive opening/middle/closing theme, a couple of quasi-sym­phonic interludes, and just a tiny bit of shredding in exactly 1:20 — but similar compositional ideas are found on almost all the other tracks. You can sort of see that this guy's primary rock inspiration is Brian May, but he's also kept doing his primary classical homework as well (more Paganini!) — my favorite bit might be the final solo in ʽTwilight Hallʼ, where both guitars «fall together» for the rapid-fire shredding parts and then Olbrich's guitar falls out to follow its indivi­dually twisted baroque course, but really, it's all quite consistent throughout.

The only disappointing track on the album is ʽLord Of The Ringsʼ — not because it is rather a vain idea to compress all of the novel into three minutes (eat that, Peter Jackson!), but because the song abandons the standard formula in favor of a medieval-esque acoustic ballad setting, and (a) they do not have the compositional genius to make it particularly memorable, (b) they do not have the arranging genius to make it particularly haunting, (c) keeping it quiet puts you at risk of actually paying attention to the lyrics, which is always a bad idea with Blind Guardian. Then again, you cannot seriously blame the band for deciding to include an acoustic «breather» in be­tween all the assault and battery going on. And besides, it's The Lord Of The Rings in three minutes, how cool is that?

Anyway, it is all a rather straightforward fantasy game, no particular «depth» to it, no serious possibility of allegorical readings or anything, but, as a representative of the «not-at-all-addicted-to-fantasy» camp, I will admit to still being impressed. Most importantly, Tales From The Twi­light World really only uses all those literary influences as a front to deliver music that has its own, independent value. It is fantasy music, yes, but it is Blind Guardian fantasy music, not Tolkien or Stephen King fantasy music. Can you imagine ʽLost In The Twilight Hallʼ used in the soundtrack to The Fellowship Of The Ring? Obviously not. All the more reason for an honorable thumbs up. 

Black Sabbath: Reunion

BLACK SABBATH: REUNION (1998)

1) War Pigs; 2) Behind The Wall Of Sleep; 3) N.I.B.; 4) Fairies Wear Boots; 5) Electric Funeral; 6) Sweet Leaf; 7) Spiral Architect; 8) Into The Void; 9) Snowblind; 10) Sabbath Bloody Sabbath; 11) Orchid / Lord Of This World; 12) Dirty Women; 13) Black Sabbath; 14) Iron Man; 15) Children Of The Grave; 16) Paranoid; 17) Psycho Man; 18) Selling My Soul.

It is amusing that the first ever officially sanctioned, contemporary live release from one of the world's greatest rock line-ups should have taken place thirty years past the formation of that line-up — and twenty years past the last time it stuck together (not counting brief hazy quirks like the Live Aid appearance). But it is even more amusing, actually, that this reunion show, recorded December 4-5, 1997, in the band's home city of Birmingham (as if we needed even more nostal­gia!), is every bit as good as any good show played in Sabbath history, young or old.

With Forbidden marking a particularly low point in Iommi's, and Black Sabbath's, biography, it may well have been inevitable that they made a conscious try to break away from endless em­barrassments and mediocrities and take a single big leap back into the stratosphere. How they all patched up their differences and got back on track once again is a long (but not particularly unique or fascinating) story, so we will skip it and turn right to this Birmingham gig. Is it any good? Should anybody besides hardcore Sab fans give a damn?

Well, first of all, everybody's in fine form. Everybody put on a bit of weight, figuratively or lite­rally speaking, over the years, meaning that Bill Ward has lost a bit of the old-school maniacality (this is immediately obvious on his heavier, but less fussy fills on ʽWar Pigsʼ), but apart from that, Tony is always rock-hard reliable, and the biggest surprise, of course, is Ozzy, who returns to the stage with his former friends like the past twenty years had never happened — getting into the spirit of the songs (many of which he hadn't sung live since the split, although some of the Sabbath classics did, of course, stay in his repertoire) and even consistently managing to stay in tune, health factors notwithstanding.

Second, the setlist alone is like a virtual greatest hits compilation — for obvious reasons, the entire post-1978 (in fact, the entire post-1976) Sabbath catalog is happily ignored, and we get to remind ourselves why this band actually mattered in the first place. I do have my complaints, since they mostly do the big hits, without any big surprises, and also since one of their best albums, Sabotage, is completely ignored (not even a ʽSymptom Of The Universeʼ!); at the very least, they could have dumped ʽDirty Womenʼ, one of the least satisfying pieces on Technical Ecstasy, and replaced it with something more challenging and less predictable. But then again, what are you going to perform for your fans after a 20-year break, if not the frickin' hits?

Third, the final decision probably depends on what you think of Ozzy as a showman. If the endless (and, ultimately, quite gratuitous) assaults on the F-word, the incessant toying with the audience ("let me see your fucking hands!" — Ozzy, why don't you just put on your glasses?), the strange manner of patronizing ("louder! louder! I can't fucking hear you! LOUDER!... [pause] ... here's a song called ʽInto The Voidʼ" — so if they all shut up out of principle, does that mean you wouldn't be playing that song?), and the numerous, but not totally overwhelming ad-libs on the songs are up your alley, the album is a must-have, because the man is clearly having fun rather than faking it. If you consider this irresponsibly clownish behaviour, going against the darkly insane spirit of the tunes, then each and every song will host at least one, and often more, cringe­worthy moments for you. On the other hand, it might be worth hearing just for the price of that bit of croaky laughter on ʽBlack Sabbathʼ — "Satan's standing there, he's smiling..." — so 100% Ozzy, could anybody else have produced a demented laugh of that kind?

Concerning the differences between these live versions and originals, only one curious thing caught my attention: the disappearance of Ozzy's sung part during the «brutal» mid-section of ʽSabbath Bloody Sabbathʼ, the one where Tony comes up with one more of his Godzilla-powered riffs. Possibly the original part was too high-pitched for him to recreate it twenty-five years later, but then again, he did downtune the melodies in quite a few other spots, so it is strange — and then, apparently, they just dropped the song from their later reunion shows altogether. One of those little reminders that time does go by, no matter how much you want it to stop.

As a small compensation for the album's inevitable age-related flaws, though, the reunited band offers a bonus — two new songs, sort of a water-test to see if the old Sab chemistry is still in place when it comes to creating, not just re-creating. On ʽPsycho Manʼ, they seem to be trying a little too hard: yes, we know this is a band singing dark songs on creepy subjects, but should their first song after such a long interruption really be a straightforward portrait of a homicidal maniac? Regardless, it follows the classic Sabbath recipé very loyally, with an expected key/tempo change in the middle and then yet another again in the end — I just wish Tony had come up with a better set of riffs. ʽSelling My Soulʼ is more effective, since it is another one of those «autobiographi­cal» Ozzy songs — as long as the man is still crazy after all these years, you can never get tired of sentimental depictions of his craziness, so this time, the lack of a great riff is forgivable. If these tunes fail to come close to the greatness of yore, they at least show that, with Ozzy and Geezer back in the team, the Sabs can fare much better than they did in the Martin years.

With Past Lives now easily available on the market, Reunion has automatically ceased to be the «if-you-only-buy-one-Sabbath-live-record-buy-this-one» choice for fans, especially because Sab­bath have always been a fairly conservative band, and Reunion is a particularly conservative live album, specially designed to re-establish the band «as it was». Still, with all these great songs performed with such faith in their greatness, how could this be anything but a thumbs up? Or just buy it in recognition of the human being's inalienable right to say "fuck" at awesomely ever-increasing rates, long predating the golden days of HBO.

Bob Marley: The Best Of The Wailers

BOB MARLEY: THE BEST OF THE WAILERS (1971)

1) Soul Shake Down Party; 2) Stop The Train; 3) Caution; 4) Soul Captives; 5) Go Tell It On The Mountain; 6) Can't You See; 7) Soon Come; 8) Cheer Up; 9) Back Out; 10) Do It Twice.

This is a fairly weird entry in Marley's yearbook. To «the best of» my knowledge, this is the only The Best Of... album in existence that is not actually a true «best of», but rather just a collection of tracks recorded during a brief time period, none of them previously issued. Namely, these songs were recorded by The Wailers circa 1969-70, prior to the band's engagement with Perry and under the supervision of equally notorious (back then, at least) producer Leslie Kong. Some­thing stalled or backfired, though: the band did not get along with the man too well, eventually abandoned him for Perry, and the tracks remained shelved for about a year and a half.

As the band started gaining traction, though, Kong decided to capitalize upon those leftovers, and released them under this super-arrogant title — translated to «you thought the Wailers with Scratch Perry were good? you ain't heard nothing yet, you silly amateurs!» According to urban legend which is too awesome to be true, Bunny Wailer, upon hearing Kong's plans, told him that it would really only be the «best» Wailers if the man didn't live long enough to hear anything else by the band — and, true enough, Kong died of a heart attack, aged 38, one week upon release. I'm positive Bunny just invented that story post-factum, but the fact does remain that the album was released without the band's consent, and with a stupid title to boot.

Not that there's any serious reason to complain, because, best or not best, these ten short tracks (making up for a «mini-LP» at the most) are really quite good. Without Perry around to make them concentrate on the basic essence (or should I say «bassic essence»?), they are somewhat croonier, poppier, and doo-woppier than anything on Soul Rebels, and, in fact, the whole album still gravitates more towards old-fashioned ska than newly-born reggae. The atmosphere still reminds of the early days when the Wailers used to wear suits and ties, and cut their hair short — but the music is already bubbling with fine songwriting ideas, and the «social value» of the songs, while not immediately jumping out at the listener, is already quite deeply embedded.

The only number to appear on later releases in a re-recorded format is Tosh's ʽStop That Trainʼ, showing a Sam Cooke influence (ʽGood Timesʼ), but completely readapted for the sound and style of the wailing Wailers — Peter's powerful delivery and barely concealed desperation makes the song every bit of the band's equivalent for the Beatles' ʽHelp!ʼ: a "lonely man" brought down by something that is hard to express in words and searching for refuge/salvation, all the while clothing his desperation in poppy choruses and friendly rhythm patterns. And his sheer vocal strength and soulful conviction, both here and on the traditional hymn ʽGo Tell It On The Mountainʼ, are two more reasons to sorely lament his parting ways with Marley, since he is every bit the better, or, at least, definitely the more «epic» singer of the two.

Interestingly enough, at least half of the songs are credited to Rita Marley rather than Bob, showing that her stature within the band was even more prominent in those early years than later (although she is still responsible for a good bunch of the Wailers' mid-period classics, like ʽCrazy Baldheadʼ etc.). Like her husband, she is not specializing in any particular direction: ʽSoul Shakedown Partyʼ, for instance, is a quiet love celebration (the best thing about which is its simple, instantaneously memorable organ riff), whereas ʽSoul Captivesʼ and ʽCheer Upʼ are quiet by-the-rivers-of-Babylon-style anthems of hope and liberation: danceable rhythms, relaxed, optimistic Caribbean/surf lead guitar parts, and statements that "freedom day will come", so we might as well start rejoicing on the spot.

Other than ʽStop That Trainʼ and ʽSoul Shakedown Partyʼ, the only true standout is once again Tosh's — ʽSoon Comeʼ, another dissatisfied rant about expecting stuff and not getting it (techni­cally, complaining about being constantly let down by a love interest, but allegorically inter­pretable as complaining about being let down, period). The trivial hook — song title made into a falsetto mantra — bites into you at once, and focuses your attention on one of Peter's finest examples of «getting into character», whereas Bob, throughout the album, is playing it cool, never letting himself get carried away. Funny, yes, but at this point it was not at all certain who would eventually come out «on top» within the Wailers.

Although, technically, this is more like a footnote in the story of Bob Marley, the record is still an essential acquisition for all the fans of Peter Tosh, all the admirers of Rita Marley as a songwriter in her own rights, and all those who want to remember Leslie Kong as one of the first influential Jamaican record producers, responsible for the rise of reggae. For those who just love good music, it is probably not so essential, but there is nothing whatsoever to dislike — amicable rhythms, pleasant solos, cool organ riffs, catchy harmonies, and some social value. Thumbs up, closing our eyes on the ridiculousness of the title. 

Blue Öyster Cult: Fire Of Unknown Origin

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: FIRE OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN (1981)

1) Fire Of Unknown Origin; 2) Burnin' For You; 3) Veteran Of The Psychic Wars; 4) Sole Survivor; 5) Heavy Metal: The Black And Silver; 6) Vengeance; 7) After Dark; 8) Joan Crawford; 9) Don't Turn Your Back.

Seeing as how everybody and their tattooed grandmothers seem to love ʽBurnin' For Youʼ, I won't say anything particularly bad about this song — but I do want to express a little sorrow in light of the fact that, where their first big hit (ʽReaperʼ) sucked up to the Byrds and their second big hit (ʽGodzillaʼ) sucked up to... well, let's say The Move and Roy Wood's Wizzard, among other things, their third (and last) big hit sucks up to Foreigner. And it's written by the band's bestest melody-writer (Roeser) and bestest lyricist (Meltzer), no less! Yes, gentlemen, change is definitely in the air, and not necessarily for the better.

Not that ʽBurnin' For Youʼ is a particularly disappointing spokessong for the arena-rock genre: as a catchy, danceable vehicle to express longing and torment, it is totally on par with the best that Foreigner and Boston had to offer us. Nor would I want to deny Buck Dharma the right to con­tribute another «serious-sounding» rather than «tongue-in-cheek» song, after he'd proved himself so capable with ʽReaperʼ and ʽDeadlineʼ. But the pop metal riff tone that he generates (or is made to generate by Martin Birch, once again returning into the producer's seat) is so far removed from the classic hard rock sound of BÖC, and the chorus hook is so unashamedly «commercial» (in the not-so-good sense of the word), that even if we «accept» the song, it will still be clearly indicative of the numerous embarrassments to follow.

On the whole, Fire Of Unknown Origin still preserves the basic accoutrements of a typical BÖC product. The original line-up is still intact, Meltzer is on board, and so is Moorcock, contributing the lyrics from another of his fantasy scenarios; and so is Sandy Pearlman, with lyrics for ʽHeavy Metalʼ, a song that, along with several others, was intended to appear in the soundtrack to the animated movie of the same name; and so is even Patti Smith, helping out with the title track. There is sci-fi, fantasy, spoof horror, and campy, grotesque atmosphere a-plenty, starting with the album cover and ending with a song about Joan Crawford as a ghoul that has risen from the grave to keep on tormenting her unfortunate daughter (ironically, the album was released three months before the premiere of Mommy Dearest with Faye Dunaway, so who influenced who?..).

But the music, oddly enough, even though they still retain their heavy metal producer, once again veers off the «heavy» trajectory (as they tried to re-establish it with Cultösaurus). Those pop metal riffs I have mentioned are, in fact, the heaviest element of the sound — which is otherwise very much dominated by synthesizers. Thankfully, they try to use them creatively and in diverse ways, from background tapestries (title track) to doom-laden church-organ substitutes (ʽSole Survivorʼ) to playful, danceable New Wave patterns à la Cars (ʽAfter Darkʼ), and, besides, we have only just begun to knock upon Eighties' doors, so there is a good sense of balance. Addi­tionally, we must keep in mind that the band was essentially a «meta-rock» formation, meaning that they had to present their own quirky take on whatever was currently en vogue, so this shift to an early amalgamation of pop metal and synth-rock was probably inevitable. However, that does not mean that we have to enjoy it, and I would not call this album tremendously enjoyable.

In fact, out of its exaggerated, cartoonish, corny darkness (well fit for the exaggerated, cartoonish, corny darkness of Heavy Metal, for which many of these songs were written, but almost none were used), I would say that I instinctively enjoy only two songs, for different reasons. ʽVeteran Of The Psychic Warsʼ somehow, almost as if against its own will, manages to capture a bit of the war-weary, troubled-paranoid syndrome — forget about Moorcock's fantasy-based lyrics, it could just as easily be about Vietnam — with an impressive build-up towards the ominous conclusion of the chorus ("oh please don't let these shakes go on..." is almost creepy), and its sonic atmos­phere, with those booming martial drums, is vaguely reminiscent of Peter Gabriel's ʽIntruderʼ, perhaps not accidentally so. A mini-masterpiece that I would recommend, hands down, over ʽBurnin' For Youʼ as the album's best track any time of day, night, or the interim.

The second track that I get a real kick out of is... yes, ʽJoan Crawfordʼ. It is a silly joke, yes, but a hilarious one, as if the band is spoofing its own predilection for the subject of vampirism and revenants — I can see how some stuck-up admirers of ʽNosferatuʼ could be offended by being offered this parody, but as a (self-)parody, I'll be damned if it doesn't work. Not only is it one of the best-produced tracks on the album (classical Chopinesque piano instead of synths! old-school distorted guitars!), but that little ghostly whisper ("Chrissssteeena! Mother's home!...") gets me every time. Plus, for what it's worth, there might be a glimmer of wisdom to this parody — in ad­dition to sending up their own obsessions, it also sends up the exaggerated «celebrity-bashing» wave after the sensationalist publications of Crawford's daughter had turned the late Joan into a model monster. Maybe the song does not have a great melody, but it has great theater.

The remainder of the songs are tolerable and not without compositional decency or hooks, but tunes like ʽSole Survivorʼ keep getting stuck halfway between «serious» and «campy», not at­mospheric or heartfelt enough to overawe the senses and not funny or inventively arranged enough to be appreciated as first-class parody, satire, or intriguing exercise in post-modernism. ʽHeavy Metal: The Black And Silverʼ is the worst of the bunch (Spinal Tap incarnate); ʽVenge­anceʼ sounds like it should be the personal anthem of Conan the Barbarian, but would he have liked all those keyboards, really?; and, closing the album, ʽDon't Turn Your Backʼ is a repetitive, syncopated white R&B number that wants to say goodbye to us with a moody, but friendly piece of advice for the road ("don't turn your back, danger surrounds you...") but, in all honesty, sounds about as exciting as The Average White Band — which, all through the 1970s, BÖC never were. White, yes, but definitely above average.

Even so, Fire Of Unknown Origin deserves a lukewarm thumbs up. Its flaws are very much defined by its epoch, and the band's interest in pushing forward the boundaries of their sound and in exploring various alleyways around their main street is still very much intact. By all means, it could have been much better if they had a better grip on the really exciting things that were going on in the musical world around that time (for comparison, one of their chief American competi­tors in the «glam and satire» market, Alice Cooper, did get a much better grip — his Flush The Fashion was a far smarter and snappier exploration of the New Wave scene at the time). But even the way it turned out, it was anything but a simplistic sell-out, or a betrayal of the band's ide­als. They just thought it'd sound more cutting-edge with the keyboards, that's all. 

Adolescents: Presumed Insolent

ADOLESCENTS: PRESUMED INSOLENT (2013)

1) The Athena Decree; 2) Conquest Of The Planet Of The See Monkeys; 3) Forever Summer; 4) Riptide; 5) In This Town Everything Is Wonderful; 6) Big Rock Shock; 7) Dissatisfaction Guaranteed; 8) Presumed Insolent; 9) Broken Window; 10) 300 Cranes; 11) Snaggletooth And Nail; 12) Daisy's Revenge; 13) TicTac At The Alligator Tree.

Two years later, the Adolescents are back and their formula has not changed half an inch. There is a new guitar player (Dan Root) replacing an older guitar player (Joe Harrison), but who gives a damn? The Adolescents were never known for individualistic styles of guitar playing. What matters is that the album is even more monotonous than its predecessor, and offers the listener an even harsher retro-encapsulation of the band's classic sound that you thought was possible — one of the most rigidly conservative «rebel» albums I've ever heard.

The sound is every bit as pristine and exciting as it used to be, but this time around, the songs are really glued together — same length, same tempo, same chord patterns, same mood for each of these thirteen numbers. Worst of all, the production is muddier and more muffled than it was for Fastest Kid, so that the guitars rarely sound as «crisp», and the vocals are diffused in the mix and lack proper rousing power. The basic aural impression is a rather «sludgy» one, and no matter how much of an effort the band makes, the songs never make me want to clench my fist like ʽKids Of The Black Holeʼ used to do.

A few of these numbers have power-pop potential that is never properly realized — I think that ʽBroken Windowʼ, for instance, could make better use of its vocal melody, had Tony bothered to record his voice more prominently, or had one of the guitar players bothered «coloring» that tone a little differently. But the thing is, they are still operating on this «strictly spontaneous» basis, where too much seasoning is supposed to spoil the broth — a mistake, because times, brains, and attitudes have changed well enough since 1981 to allow this «spontaneity» to be tinged with genius. Within these thirty-two minutes worth of music lies a perfectly palatable power-pop EP, with a running length of 15-20 minutes; all they had to do was give themselves a little more time and a little more sophistication to get it out of their system.

But no, this is «hardcore punk», pretending to old glories, and now it doesn't even have the come­back excite­ment of Fastest Kid, let alone the fact that each of these songs probably took five minutes to write. The song titles look appealing — ʽTicTac At The Alligator Treeʼ is one of my favorites, regardless of what it is all about (the words are predictably undecipherable throughout, and hunting for lyrics to hardcore punk albums is not my favorite cup of tea) — but the emotional punchline is always the same, and fully predictable.

Consequently, as much as Fastest Kid was a pleasant surprise, so is this quickie follow-up a major relative disappointment, a stern exercise in «purism» that can only appeal to the band's original bunch of devotees — 45-year old geezers for whom the ideal adrenaline rush has been permanently defined as a concentrated blast of speedy Californian punk, regardless of how much effort or talent went into it. Alas, a thumbs down.

Blackmore's Night: Secret Voyage

BLACKMORE'S NIGHT: SECRET VOYAGE (2008)

1) God Save The Keg; 2) Locked Within The Crystal Ball; 3) Gilded Cage; 4) Toast To Tomorrow; 5) Prince Wal­deck's Galliard; 6) Rainbow Eyes; 7) The Circle; 8) Sister Gypsy; 9) Can't Help Falling In Love; 10) Peasant's Pro­mise; 11) Far Far Away; 12) Empty Words.

The only principal difference here stands out in the credits: where in the past we had at least half or more of the songs starkly credited to «Blackmore, Night», here the same convention is obser­ved only on a small handful of tracks. The rest are either listed as straightahead covers, or pre­ceded with a «traditional» disclaimer, as if, after all these years, conscience had finally caught up with Ritchie and he decided to openly admit that he did not, in fact, write all these melodies. Most people knew that already, of course — that he is much more of an arranger and «adapter» than an independent composer in his own rights — but it is nice to see him coming out with this new­found humility as the years go by. Now how about going all the way and including Vince Wallace in the author list for ʽChild In Timeʼ?..

Alas, humility and entertainment do not always go hand in hand, and at this juncture, Black­more's Night seems to be running out of the last puffs of steam. The best song on the album, and the only one fit for repeated listening, as far as I am concerned, is ʽLocked Within The Crystal Ballʼ, a modernized take on the old medieval song ʽStella Splendensʼ from the 14th century «Libre Ver­melle de Montserrat», one of the earliest surviving manuscripts of folk-styled hymns. Yes, people could really write awesome songs back then, and Ritchie and Candice are quite inspired by the experience of re-inventing this golden oldie for modern times — giving it a stern galloping tempo and extra vocal hooks: Candice's "...locked within the crystal ball" is a fine case of matching the «doom» of the lyrics with the «doom» of the vocal melody (although the «doom» is anything but tragic — serious, inescapable, but not catastrophic), and Ritchie's extended guitar duet with Candice has an honestly hypnotic quality to it. I only wish they'd left the song keyboard-free, because all this synthesizer crap only enhances the cheese effect — why not a good old Ham­mond organ instead, at the very least?

Nothing else on the record even comes close in terms of power. The straightforward covers are rotten — the old Rainbow ballad ʽRainbow Eyesʼ is grossly overproduced, and hardly works at all, devoid of the intimate setting of the original; and they do yet another gallop-tempo rendition, this time of ʽCan't Help Falling In Loveʼ — inventive, for sure, but there is a goddamn reason why this song used to be slow: the rushed tempo and bombastic onslaught of the melody make it look like a case of «love on saddleback». What's up with all the hurry? Courting is supposed to be a delicate process, and here all that's missing is the crack of the whip.

Except for another fast-paced Russian folk dance (ʽToast To Tomorrowʼ) that really does not fit in with Candice's vocal style, the rest of the songs just sort of diffuse in one another — ballad upon ballad, atmosphere over hooks without any unpredictable twists. This is a background against which even a corny mutilation of ʽCan't Help Falling In Loveʼ will begin to look attrac­tive, and a clear sign that the dynamic duo finally ran out of dynamics. Only the staunchest fans, seduced to the death by Candice's faux-medieval sexiness and/or willing to waste a lifetime dis­secting every Blackmore lick ever played, will embrace Secret Voyage as thoroughly as the duo's first three or four albums — the rest really need not bother beyond a brief acquaintance with ʽCrystal Ballʼ. There is almost nothing here but self-repetition and atmospherics, and I do not understand why in the world I would need to listen to Ritchie repeating himself, or to praise a record for the kind of atmosphere that I «tolerate» rather than «enjoy». Sure, they may have produced enough tracks to supply the complete alternative soundtrack to Game Of Thrones, but in the end, quantity decisively won over quality, so a thumbs down it is.