AC/DC: Backtracks

AC/DC: BACKTRACKS (1974-2001/2009)

CD I: 1) High Voltage; 2) Stick Around; 3) Love Song; 4) It's A Long Way To The Top; 5) Rocker; 6) Fling Thing; 7) Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap; 8) Ain't No Fun (Waitin' 'Round To Be A Millionnaire); 9) R.I.P. (Rock In Peace); 10) Carry Me Home; 11) Crabsody In Blue; 12) Cold Hearted Man; 13) Who Made Who (12" Extended Mix); 14) Snake Eye; 15) Borrowed Time; 16) Down On The Borderline; 17) Big Gun; 18) Cyberspace; CD II: 1) Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap; 2) Dog Eat Dog; 3) Live Wire; 4) Shot Down In Flames; 5) Back In Black; 6) T.N.T.; 7) Let There Be Rock; 8) Guns For Hire; 9) Sin City; 10) Rock'n'Roll Ain't Noise Pollution; 11) This House Is On Fire; 12) You Shook Me All Night Long; 13) Jailbreak; 14) Shoot To Thrill; 15) Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be; CD III: 1) High Voltage; 2) Hells Bells; 3) Whole Lotta Rosie; 4) Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap; 5) Highway To Hell; 6) Back In Black; 7) For Those About To Rock; 8) Ballbreaker; 9) Hard As A Rock; 10) Dog Eat Dog; 11) Hail Caesar; 12) Whole Lotta Rosie; 13) You Shook Me All Night Long; 14) Safe In New York City.

Another cooky boxset, released at the peak of the Black Ice hype and featuring the latest and gre­atest in boxset technology: a box that represents a real small working amplifier (one watt power, so as not to disturb the neighbours). Apart from the packaging delights, however, Backtracks on­ly goes to show, once more, just how uncluttered the vaults are.

The set exists in two versions — three CDs/two DVDs and two CDs/one DVD, respectively — and only the first CD really makes any proper sense, since it carefully collects all, or most, of the B-sides and rarities that used to make the professional collector a human being of a different or­der from the mere mortal. No more. Now even the laymen have regular, simple access to pleasu­res they had missed, such as:

— the B-side to the 'Jailbreak' single, surreptitiously called 'Fling Thing' but in reality the same 'Bonnie' that the band sang along with the audience on the Live album, only in the studio, with nearly inaudible vocals but quite well-pronounced guitar;

— the Australian-only release of 'Rock In Peace' (originally on Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Che­ap) and 'Crabsody In Blue' (originally on Let There Be Rock), a mid-tempo and a slow blues shuffle respectively, both of which further develop Bon Scott's sickly predictable brand of teenage humor ('Crabsody In Blue' is basically 'The Jack Part 2');

— 'Cold Hearted Man', a rocker from Powerage that sounds exactly like most other rockers on Powerage and (possibly, for that same reason) disappeared on the American LP;

— some unremarkable Johnson-era B-sides from the late Eighties. If you hate Blow Up Yo­ur Video, don't bother. I don't, but I still don't bother;

— 'Big Gun', a pretty damn good thing written for the soundtrack of Last Action Hero (well, it ain't Scorsese, but still a good excuse for popcorn consumption). That is, until you rea­lize the principal excitement comes from the same type of vocal hook that used to be 'Bed­­lam In Belgium' (the riff from that one they recycled elsewhere).

Granted, this (plus a couple other unmentionables) is no Ali Baba's treasure cave, but still a good source of iron for completists. As for the two live CDs, the small bunch of Bon Scott-era live ma­terial is expendable (no surprises next to the wealth on Bonfire); the nine songs recorded live at Donington in 1991 are a complete waste of space — they are more or less the same as on the Live album from the 1991 tour — unless you are a particular fan of the Donington concert (avai­lable on video in its entirety) and are too lazy to rip the audio off your DVD all by yourself; the live stuff from 1996 lets you see that Ballbreaker was not all bad, but also shows that, by that time, the band was not able to amass the same level of fury onstage that it did in the studio; and the extended live version of 'Jailbreak' from 1985 is terrific until the strip section, where you will be subject to approximately five or six minutes of the bass drum going BOOM... BOOM... BO­OM... while Angus is slowly trying to figure out whether or not to give in to the crowd's demand for admiring his manhood. Authentic, but imminently skippable.

So, basically, the only real reason to own these extra two CDs is for the eight live tracks from 1981 to 1983, which capture a still young and fearsome band with hard rock's deadliest singer in his absolute prime. Granted, Brian, even at his very best and healthiest, never sang as good on stage as he did in the studio — apparently, lack of concentration and the necessity to lash and thrash about in order to keep up with the world's wildest guitarist, not to mention the necessity of constantly adjusting his cap (why he never came up with the idea of gluing it on is one of rock's deepest mysteries), hindered him from hitting all the right notes. But belt it out he could, and did, and once you get adjusted to all the little mistakes, these live renditions will be a nice change from the overplayed studio counterparts — plus, they include two of the best songs from Flick Of The Switch, and I count this as a personal gift.

Overall, while this is not the symmetric Johnson-era companion to Bonfire that the fans were ex­pecting (under a guessable title like Brianstorm or Brianshake), it is almost the thing — the Bon-era material is underrepresented, and the Brian-era material graciously lets us remember some of the best pages of his legacy. In that sense, it is a companion, and a must-have for fans, if not for general audiences.

Alice Cooper: Dragontown

ALICE COOPER: DRAGONTOWN (2001)

1) Triggerman; 2) Deeper; 3) Dragontown; 4) Sex Death And Money; 5) Fantasy Man; 6) Somewhere In The Jungle; 7) Disgraceland; 8) Sister Sarah; 9) Every Woman Has A Name; 10) Just Wanna Be God; 11) It's Much Too Late; 12) I Am The Sentinel.

For the direct sequel to Brutal Planet, Alice reteams with old friend Bob Ezrin; the impact is hard to measure, since, out of all his Ezrin-produced records, this one sounds the least like Ezrin. Possibly because Cooper was still in his «doom metal» phase, and the mystical Ezrin touch is not as transparent behind the dark waves of deep distorted guitars as it usually is behind the pianos, strings, special effects, and echoes.

Still, at least several songs are immediately distinguished by the new presence — such as the title track, whose Middle Eastern keyboard patterns on the verses immediately bring to mind similar arrangements on DaDa. And this ties in well with Alice's decision to vary the stylistics a bit: Dragontown is not simply one titanic metal onslaught following another, but rather a more diver­sified journey through the pleasures and horrors of our times, liable to be set to grinding gnashing me­tal just as easy as it can be set to light balladry or even rockabilly.

Strangely, the record does not start off on an epic note: 'Brutal Planet' announced its goals from the first minute, but Dragontown takes things more slowly, conducting the listener to its own brand of hell in several steps. First, there is the introduction of 'Triggerman', a fast, churning ro­cker that introduces your own personal Virgil who's going to be your guide for the rest of the al­bum: "I'm pure non-entity, don't even watch for me, I watch you when you sleep". Who is that? Subconscience? Some sort of inner voice? Nah, probably just Satan once more.

Then the real metal starts, plunged in a felt-more-than-heard swamp of Ezrin's Gothic effects — 'Deeper' is the descent: "The elevator broke, it went right through the floor...". Corny, B-movie level, but catchy and exciting as always, and, more importantly, evocative; here is a man who understands what these deep guitar tones are there for. And, finally, the gates burst open on Track Three — the magnificent 'Dragontown', unfurling slowly and almost unwillingly through a maze of swirling keyboards and basses into the gritty singalong chorus. If 'Brutal Planet' was all a big ball of disgust and hate, 'Dragontown' is more personal and frightening, as if the Coop were stret­ching out his gnarled set of claws to you right out of the speakers: "Come on, I've got something to show you — come on, you're really gonna love this!"

I have caught myself plenty of times on the realization that, at some point, despite all the obvious­ness and simplicity, the Coop's cartoonish vibe transcends these flaws, making even prepared lis­teners of the «been-there, heard-that, no surprises» caliber experience an unfaked internal shiver. Dragontown has plenty of moments like this. On the previous album, the evil of genocide was vividly described within 'Pick Up The Bones', inspired by events in Bosnia; here, the subject continues with 'Somewhere In The Jungle', reminding Western audiences of even bloodier events in Rwanda (granted, most people won't even pay attention to the lyrics, and those that will may not know what the thing is specifically about; it does not help matters much that the reference to the Serengeti is somewhat misguided — that's, uh, in Tanzania, Alice, on the other side of Lake Victoria. Might as well say the Kalahari). Nevertheless, it's quite scary as well.

On the lighter side, the humor is back, and most of the heaviest songs are imbued with sarcasm so as not to sustain the same homicidal level of depression throughout. 'Sex, Death And Money' in­troduces the deadliest, zombiest guitar tone you will ever hear on a Cooper album, but the song's message ("sex, death, and money, sonny, that is why we all are gonna fry") is delivered with iro­ny: for all of Cooper's unexpected Christian morality, he sure knows a mean way how to hand out a moral message and have a good laugh at professional moralists at the same time and not end up sounding like a cheap hypocrite.

There are also some killer send-ups on the record. 'Fantasy Man' returns us to the lambasting of the redneck stereotype: "I don't do dishes, and I'm suspicious of any grown-up man that does; I'm homophobic, don't do aerobics, just lay around and catch a buzz" — he hasn't nailed that stereo­type that well since 'I Love America' in 1983. 'Disgraceland', alternating punk-pop with rockabil­ly, is a, ahem, «tribute» to The King, whom we apparently meet doing time in Dragontown, re­plete with a not-half-bad Elvis impersonation. And the hilarious industrial rap of 'Just Wanna Be God' goes as far as to send up the principal anti-hero himself — now we know that all of man­kind's troubles are really, in fact, the sole consequence of some solitary individual's inferiority complexes: "I only wanna build my statue tall, that's all — why can't I be God? I only wanna be God!" Thanks a lot, pal.

To complete the picture, we have the obligatory woman-is-the-nigger-of-the-world sensitive bal­lad ('Every Woman Has A Name', hardly better or worse than all of Alice's similar creations, but give the guy extra points for consistency) and a lighter pop-rocker about a guy who seemingly led a righteous life but is now wondering how the hell he ended up right in it ('It's Much Too Late', which, according to rumors, is dedicated to Lennon and, indeed, sounds a bit like John, but it is a little difficult to imagine John as the protagonist of a song whose lyrics go "When I was a teen, all the sex that I missed was an abstinence blessing to me", don't you think?).

We are more or less accustomed to Cooper's albums arriving in pairs — Welcome To My Night­mare in a two-fer with Goes To Hell, Trash with Hey Stoopid, etc. — but most of these pairs had a clear superior and inferior member. With Brutal Planet and Dragontown, no such decisi­on can be taken. The former has the upper hand when it comes to pouring out bare emotion — it pummels you right across the floor; the latter, while slightly more restrained and calculated, is, on the other side, more interesting in that the sheer number of ideas is much larger. Naturally, it is as easy a thumbs up as its predecessor, continuing to build up Alice's reputation for the new millen­nium (and setting up an impressive record of two consecutively fine albums in two years for a rock icon in his fifties).

Aretha Franklin: Yeah!!! In Person

ARETHA FRANKLIN: YEAH!!! IN PERSON (1965)

1) This Could Be The Start Of Something; 2) Once In A Lifetime; 3) Misty; 4) More; 5) There Is No Greater Love; 6) Muddy Water; 7) If I Had A Hammer; 8) Impossible; 9) Today I Love Ev'rybody; 10) Without The One You Love; 11) Trouble In Mind; 12) Love For Sale.

Well worth locating. One thing you cannot say about Columbia Records is that they never tried finding the right groove for Aretha — or that Aretha herself did not latch onto each of their initi­atives with respectful enthusiasm. Thus, after the attempt to market her as a teen idol lady did not work (or, rather, did not succeed in making her into the next Mary Wells), out comes another di­rection: straightforward small-combo jazz! If not Dinah Washington, and not Mary Wells, then why not Ella Fitzgerald? Something, at some time, is bound to work after all.

The album is claimed to be «live», which is both true and false. True, in that the performances were indeed recorded live — in the studio — with no overdubs and very few different takes, the way it befits a tight jazz band. False, in that there was no live audience present, but, following the perverted spirit of the times, it was felt that a «live ambience» was necessary, so the engineers added scattered bunches of applause and audience noises, as if this were all happening in a posh restaurant: you can hear the clinking of the silverware and lots of conversation going on — obvi­ously, no one has any real business in listening to Aretha belt her soul out, except for a little po­lite clapping at the end of the song.

Which immediately translates to «fake», because I have serious doubts that most people would go on chatting about their own affairs the minute Aretha opened her mouth on any of these tunes. As I already said, she is no jazz singer, or, at least, no great jazz singer; she knows little about vocal modulation, nor does she have any desire to scat or vocalize. She is a powerhouse gospel machine that found itself in the situation of having to work in a jazz framework. But that's exactly what makes the experience particularly interesting. Jazz music + gospel engine almost equal rock'n'roll; if only the backing band, who are tight but play in the standard jazz idiom, understood the special qualities of Aretha and played accordingly, Yeah!!! would have justified its title and, who knows, could even become a landmark jazz record. As it is, they find it hard to catch up, but it is still ex­citing just to see them try.

The track list mostly consists of standards, a few ('Without The One You Love') re-recorded from former sessions, with maybe one or two surprises, such as the jazz arrangement of 'If I Had A Hammer'. Overall, it is not always possible, nor is it absolutely necessary, to discern breaks be­tween songs, except when a fast shuffle is replaced by a slow ballad; instead, just concentrate on the energy and conviction that flows from young Aretha, and think about how less kick-ass all of it might have sounded in the hands of other singers. This is a record that begs you to headbang to it, and closes its eyes on all the subtle nuances of the genre. Well, why not? Thumbs up.

B. B. King: B. B. King Wails

B. B. KING: B. B. KING WAILS (1959)

1) Sweet Thing; 2) I've Got Papers On You, Baby; 3) Tomorrow Is Another Day; 4) Come By Here; 5) The Fool; 6) I Love You So; 7) The Woman I Love; 8) We Can't Make It; 9) Treat Me Right; 10) Time To Say Goodbye.

He wails all right, but he does not play all that much. Credited to «B. B. King And His Or­che­s­tra», the record is an even more clearly pronounced effort to promote B. B. as a lounge enter­tai­ner, downplaying his guitar skills and concentrating on the power of his voice. There are, in fact, several tracks on here where he doesn't produce a single lick — such as the ridiculous 'Come By Here', a «family arrangement» of 'Kumbaya' with new (and even sillier) lyrics, or the generic doo-wop of 'I Love You So'.

This cannot work, and it does not work. No one should doubt the powers of B. B. King as a blues singer — always was one of the absolute best out there — but his voice only works to its fullest when he gives it the proper competition from the guitar. Competing with crooners like Clyde Mc­Phatter, or even comparably bulky R'n'B-ers like Big Joe Turner, is, however, an entirely useless thing, and whoever took the decision of drowning King's guitar in orchestral arrangements must have had only recently switched to working in the music industry from an earplug factory.

About half of this surprisingly short album (ten tracks only) is still vintage B. B., with some fiery playing on tracks like 'The Woman I Love' and 'Treat Me Right', but, on the other hand, these are tracks that add little, if anything, to the stylistics already displayed on the previous two albums. 'The Fool' and 'Time To Say Goodbye' were the singles, but neither is a classic; 'The Fool' is also one of those guitarless tracks that should have been left to crooners.

The recent CD reissue of the album is arguably a better proposition than the original, due to the inclusion of a few bonus tracks that have B. B. playing not with his own orchestra, but with Count Basie and Tommy Dorsey instead; the Count Basie version of 'Everyday I Have The Blues', in particular, is probably a must-hear for fans of both artists. Which does not save the record itself from a disappointed thumbs down, regardless.

Black Mountain: In The Future

BLACK MOUNTAIN: IN THE FUTURE (2008)

1) Stormy High; 2) Angels; 3) Tyrants; 4) Wucan; 5) Stay Free; 6) Queens Will Play; 7) Evil Ways; 8) Wild Wind; 9) Bright Lights; 10) Night Walks; 11*) Bastards Of Light; 12*) Thirteen Walls; 13*) Black Cat.

We here on Planet Earth are a continually bored race, one that, for reasons unknown and fiercely disputed, has been gi­ven the possibility of expanding our minds beyond the bare concept of species preservation and reproduction — and has discovered, much to its own frustration, that there really are no objects in this world worthy of the application of these expanded minds. So we have invented ourselves this thing called «A-R-T» to play around with — extracting previously non-existent sounds, images, and word combinations out of our swollen consciences, feeding our neighbours with the stuff and imagining that we are doing a great service to the Universe, even though there is not the slightest bit of evidence that the Universe actually gives a shit about it.

These thoughts may not only be banal, but also off target — yet, for some reason, I never stum­bled upon them when listening to Black Mountain's influences, from Jefferson Airplane to Hawk­wind, and here, well, they have pursued me throughout the entire seventy two minutes of In The Future. Can we call In The Future a boring imitation of a bunch of idols? But if we did, would that be interesting? Wouldn't it be more interesting to come back to the record for a second, third, fifty-fifth time, so that the gist of Black Mountain's contribution to humanity can be stated clearly and transparently? Paradoxically, the more derivative someone's art is, the more you have to think about it — the more justification it may require.

The reference to Hawkwind, by the way, was not off the cuff. In The Future justifies its title by giving us a spacier, sci-fi-er picture than the debut album, with more emphasis on trippy studio effects, Mellotrons, astral lyrics, and even the sleeve cover. Like before, Black Mountain do not hide behind a wall of metaphors — the album is called In The Future, and they actually sing about the future. This is honest. The downside is, of course, that they are not doing anything that has not already been done in the past. But we can downplay that, can't we?

I wish I could rave and rant about how the opening crunchy riff of 'Stormy High' blows my mind to tiny smithereens, smothers them in the fat sizzling oil of the Mellotrons and feeds them back to me on the acoustic waves of the band's terrifying choir of Valkyries. I cannot; this kind of rant should be left to intelligent, but ignorant fourteen-year-old nerds for whom Black Mountain is the default gateway to parallel worlds. But that does not mean — repeat, does not mean — that 'Stor­my High' is a bad, boring, or completely wasted rocker. On the contrary, I like it a lot, like I do pretty much every song on here. I simply find no meaningful or interesting way to describe its artistic ambitions. There's, uh, a thunderstorm brewing. Or something. Who cares?

You have to brace yourself for a lot of long songs — for leaden stoner riffs alternating with astral keyboard solos, for walls-of-sound alternating with quiet minimalistic drums-and-bass passages, for heaps of noise materializing into Grateful Dead-like jams and dissipating back into heaps of noise; for poppy verses and choruses mutating into nauseating repetitive mantras; for Fairport Convention and Black Sabbath sharing the same kennel. Puzzled you will be; bored, no.

Pretty much all of this can be found in the 16 minutes of 'Bright Lights', whose many different sections recall the grotesque, flipped out whatever-rock of Amon Düül II, except less technical. Let me quote Thom Jurek of the All-Music Guide on that: "Fuzzy electrics, shimmering acoustics, and trance-like keyboards flit in and out between the alternating vocals of McBean and Webber. The music picks up intensity, shifts direction numerous times, and careens across the rock and folkscapes of rock's history from the late '60s through the '70s with great focus, wit, and am­bition." Perfect description. The only aspect of this that Mr. Jurek has politely swept under the carpet is: WHAT'S THE POINT? If we want to careen across the rock and folkscapes of rock's his­tory, why not go straight to the source?

To understand why, let us take one of the album's best songs, 'Wucan'. We know the vibe; similar musi­cal landscapes of astral travel have been laid down by Pink Floyd, Hawkwind and their col­leagues and followers in a thick layer. But we do not know the hook — a morose, Eastern-soun­ding organ riff interweaving with an anthemic art-rock guitar riff. It is a good, strong, memorable hook that neither Hawkwind nor Pink Floyd could have fathered (the former would have drowned it behind a wall of distortion and other instruments, the latter did not much care for repetitive gui­tar riffs like these in the first place). Is it «Trademark Black Mountain Sound»? No; these guys have no real trademarks to call their own. But it is a cool sound that they arrived at under the in­fluence, but through their own free will.

The same goes for everything else. There are no rip-offs. There is no deep meaning, there is little adequacy — they make big, bold, bright statements that have no independent value and can only be relevant to those having, up till now, lived in a vacuum; but there is juicy music made here, with talent to burn and pleasures to reap. I like the cooky falsetto on 'Stay Free', the tired"Lay your halo down..." on 'Angels', the big ugly drumming and the good old «woman tone» on 'Evil Ways', I even like all the sixteen minutes of 'Bright Lights'. If they were to tell me that they are making A-R-T here, I would say that I'd be more interested in seeing them fuck a porcupine. But if they are simply having a good futuristic time, more power to them, because I have had a good futuristic time, too. And, although this time around my poor wrecked brain is leading a desperate fight to award the album a thumbs down — simply because it has tried to say so much about it and ended up say­ing so little — the heart holds the day. Thumbs up. Frankly, if they make three dozen more records like this, I won't be disappointed. Don't make the mistake of trying to think about this album, like I did. Feel positive.

Angra: Fireworks

ANGRA: FIREWORKS (1998)

1) Wings Of Reality; 2) Petrified Eyes; 3) Lisbon; 4) Metal Icarus; 5) Paradise; 6) Mystery Machine; 7) Fireworks; 8) Extreme Dream; 9) Gentle Change; 10) Speed; 11*) Rainy Nights.

Anyone who hears Fireworks directly after Holy Land is bound to be disappointed — it is quite clearly a regressive album, abandoning the conceptual and extraneous elements in favour of a more straightforward all-out metal attack. No one has ever been able to explain why this happen­ed: no sooner had these guys opened up the doors of power metal to outside influences than some mystical force made them step back inside and bar the gates once and for all. Why?..

Once the initial disappointment fades away, though, it becomes possible to set out a different per­spective. So Holy Land seemed progressive and, on the limited scale of heavy metal, revolutio­nary, but it was mainly because of occasional sprinklings of elements that we do not expect to meet in heavy metal — such as the «tribal pecussion» of 'Carolina IV' — not because this was some radically groundbreaking synthesis of hugely different styles. Take these occasional sprink­lings out, and the distance from Holy Land to Fireworks is easily crossed.

And Fireworks isn't a bad metal album. Yes, the band does feel a bit stalled and confused, but definitely not washed up, and not giving up on their artistic influences, either. The opening thun­der of 'Wings Of Reality' cannot compete with the memorability of 'Carry On', but its symphonic vibe, with a nod or two to Beethoven, is still believable, and capable of taking the listener to all the required heights. The anthemic chorus of 'Lisbon' ("Oh, skies are falling down...") possesses the quintessential Angra stateliness; the seven-minute epic 'Paradise' could have used a little trim­ming, but otherwise its evilly distorted guitars and Matos' ironic delivery make up for a delightful Alice Cooper-ish sendup of fake morality.

It is also fun to find out that the fastest song on the album is, in fact, called 'Speed', and that its ly­rics justify the use of speed of searching for enlightenment, because "faster than light we will find a way out of the conscience" — so now we know the precious secret of speed metal, and why these guys are so fond of it. Play fast enough, and, in time, this will get you places you've never even suspected of existing. Of course, in this particular case, the insanely velocious 'Speed' only gets you to the end of the record (is that irony?), but who knows what you're getting next time?

I do believe that Fireworks deserves a thumbs up on the rational plane, and may even become a metal favourite on repeated listens — although, unlike Holy Land, it is hard to recommend it to anyone suspicious of power metal. It is unfortunate that it became the swan song of the original band, ending their union in a downward rather than upward movement; but, in the end, it is sort of nice to know it exists, because it is not a total waste of effort.

Alcatrazz: No Parole From Rock'n'Roll

ALCATRAZZ: NO PAROLE FROM ROCK'N'ROLL (1983)

1) Island In The Sun; 2) General Hospital; 3) Jet To Jet; 4) Hiroshima Mon Amour; 5) Kree Nakoorie; 6) Incubus; 7) Too Young To Die, Too Drunk To Live; 8) Big Foot; 9) Starcarr Lane; 10) Suffer Me.

No account of 1980's rock would be complete without a proper lambasting of the impressive Tower Of Cheese that was Alcatrazz, the launching pad for Yngwie J. «Release The Fuckin' Fu­ry» Malmsteen's career. Suffice it to say, it is hardly possible to truly appreciate the greatness of bands like Accept or Judas Priest if they are not seen in comparison with the likes of this band, a few songs of which still occasionally pollute the airwaves of cheap hard rock stations.

Alcatrazz was put together by Graham Bonnet, ex-lead singer of Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow; this alone should have raised suspicions, since Bonnet was pretty much a so-so singer in compa­rison with his predecessor, the illustrious Ronnie James Dio, not to mention coming from a pri­marily R'n'B background — not exactly the best pedigree to serve as the basis for a new hard rock group. On the other hand, his sole album with Rainbow, Down To Earth, was a best-seller, and it could be hoped that Alcatrazz would be at least a commercially, if not artistically, successful pro­position. (Un)fortunately, it wasn't.

Most of the songs are credited to Bonnet and his young guitarist, Swedish prodigy Yngwie Mal­m­steen; supposedly, Bonnet takes care of the lyrics, while Yngwie is responsible for most of the musical side. There are only two problems to this arrangement: (a) although Bonnet has a fine singing voice, he is a thoroughly pathe­tic lyricist, and (b) although Malmsteen is as technically ac­complished as his legend goes, he is about as good at songwriting as Ed Wood at directing. Other than that, No Parole From Rock'n'Roll is a damn fine record.

At this point, I have to confess an allergy: I belong to the category of people that finds it almost impossible to find any sort of personal pleasure or overall artistic merit in combining «hard rock» or «heavy metal» with «soul». To me, the combination is rotten a priori. Hard rock should put you in an aggressive mood; soul music should mellow you out. How is it possible to be mellow and aggressive at the same time? Imagine saying, "I'll assfuck any bastard that even dares to suggest I'm gay" — think on this for a while — then come back to this album.

Occasionally, the combination might still work somehow — but only if accompanied by meanin­gful melodies. The ones that Malmsteen writes, however, do not have any meaning that I can dis­cern, other than the general idea of «look at me, here I am soaring towards the sky, but God help me if I know why I'm actually doing it». And whenever he does succeed at finding a groove preg­nant with a sincere impression (usually stolen, e. g. 'Hiroshima Mon Amour', which pockets the riff of 'You Really Got Me'), up comes Bonnet with his silly, pompous vocal tone to run it into the ground — and then Yngwie plays a hollow set of flashy solo licks to bury it once and for all. And have I mentioned the corny early-Eighties keyboard sound yet?

There is not one single track on this record, be it a fast thrasher, a mid-tempo rocker, or a slow bal­lad, that would tug at one single string inside me — a rare occasion indeed. All the more sur­prising, since the closest thing this Alcatrazz sound can remind one of are similarly structured Gary Moore records of the early Eighties, and those definitely had their share of excellent songs next to absolute stinkers, even though Gary followed the exact same formula: leaden, moderately complex riffs, finger-flashing solos, soulful vocals. (It is hardly a coincidence, by the way, that, concerning the above mentioned 'Hiroshima Mon Amour', Gary had recorded his own 'Hiroshima' a couple years earlier; apparently, the metal-pathos vibe they were getting seemed equal­ly ap­prop­riate to both to be interpreted as a sort of «musical Hiroshima». Well... it was a mu­sical Hiroshima all right, if not exactly in the sense they envisaged it. At least Gary Moore had the good taste of not drawing poor innocent Alain Resnais into the picture).

Well, only thing left to suppose is that Mr. Moore just had a bit of God's gift in him, or, to be precise, invested some of that gift into the art of song­writing; Mr. Malmsteen, unfortunately, put all of it on the Zero of technical accomplish­ment — and won, to the world's utmost sorrow. No Parole From Rock'n'Roll? Come on, guys, this isn't even a good internal rhyme. And this isn't rock­'n'roll, either. Thumbs down.

AC/DC: Bonfire

AC/DC: BONFIRE (1974-1979/1997)

CD I: 1) Live Wire; 2) Problem Child; 3) High Voltage; 4) Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be; 5) Dog Eat Dog; 6) The Jack; 7) Whole Lotta Rosie; 8) Rocker; CD II: 1) Live Wire; 2) Shot Down In Flames; 3) Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be; 4) Sin City; 5) Walk All Over You; 6) Bad Boy Boogie; CD III: 1) The Jack; 2) Highway To Hell; 3) Girls Got Rhythm; 4) High Voltage; 5) Whole Lotta Rosie; 6) Rocker; 7) T.N.T.; 8) Let There Be Rock; CD IV: 1) Dirty Eyes; 2) Touch Too Much; 3) If You Want Blood (You Got It); 4) Back Seat Confidential; 5) Get It Hot; 6) Sin City; 7) She's Got Balls; 8) School Days; 9) It's A Long Way To The Top (If You Wanna Rock And Roll); 10) Ride On; CD V = Back In Black.

Many fans were seriously disappointed with AC/DC's first attempt at contributing to the «Boxset Movement». They expected rarities a-plenty, outtakes, demos, previously unheard or, at least, well-remastered live recordings, and other surprises. After all, even though the boxset was only supposed to cover the band's years with Bon Scott — hence the punny name — there must have been plenty of gold stuff lying in the 1970s vaults, no?

Well, either no or else they are letting it age for a couple more decades. Let us see. The first CD is a live performance from the Atlantic Studios, recorded December 7, 1977. Previously unrelea­sed? Hardly so; it had a very limited LP promo release as early as 1978, although, granted, from 1978 to 1997 it only existed as a collectable. The second and third CDs are the soundtrack to the concert movie Let There Be Rock, filmed in Paris in December 1979 and already owned on VHS (although not on record) by every respectable fan.

By the fourth CD, Volts, we finally get to the vaults (get it? vaults — volts! genius!), and this is where things become really odd: studio rarities are basically limited to two alternate versions of songs from Highway To Hell with only slightly different arrangements (this is AC/DC; their ar­rangements of one single song cannot be seriously different), and two early versions of 'Whole Lotta Rosie' and 'Beating Around The Bush' that are given different lyrics and, hence, different titles, but that is obviously not enough to fool anyone. Then there are a couple more live ver­sions and a few tracks from early Australian-only releases.

Finally, the fifth CD is Back In Black. 'Nuff said.

The biggest mistake that one can make about Bonfire, however, is to think of it from the perspe­ctive of hardcore AC/DC fans, who, for some reason, thought this boxset was for them. It is not. First and foremost, it is for Bon Scott, whose memory the band still lovingly cherishes after all these years, and for the band members themselves, who seem to have taken far more delight in designing and materializing this boxset than in raking in the money from its sales. Second, it is for novices who do not, as of yet, own any AC/DC, and for whom a combined set of Back In Black and some well-recorded live performances (always a better choice than regular best-of compilations) will do nicely as an introduction to the sleazy magic of Scott. Third, it is for the rock critic — to give him a nice pretext for ranting on how disgustingly cool and how street-wise intelligent AC/DC's former frontman has always been in comparison to his replacement.

For all those reasons, Bonfire is actually one of the better boxsets on the market. And the per­formances are kick-ass. One finally gets unabbreviated live versions of 'Whole Lotta Rosie', ten awesome minutes of 'Rocker', thirteen of 'Bad Boy Boogie' (alright, this one is not so fine: much of it is just basic chugga-chugga on rhythm guitar, while Angus is busy stripping — there was a good reason they filtered that part out on If You Want Blood), and quite a few Bon-sung numbers from Highway To Hell, including a 'Girls Got Rhythm' that discards all the «poppy» production elements and realizes its hardcore potential to the max.

As to the surprising lack of studio rarities, the Youngs have gone on record stating that there ac­tually were none — the band pretty much used up all the good ideas it ever came up with, and bad ideas are hardly worth releasing. Besides, who needs outtakes from AC/DC sessions if each second album they release sounds like a bunch of outtakes anyway?

Alice Cooper: Brutal Planet

ALICE COOPER: BRUTAL PLANET (2000)

1) Brutal Planet; 2) Wicked Young Man; 3) Sanctuary; 4) Blow Me A Kiss; 5) Eat Some More; 6) Pick Up The Bones; 7) Pessi-Mystic; 8) Gimme; 9) It's The Little Things; 10) Take It Like A Woman; 11) Cold Machines.

For the first time since the weirdness attacks of Zipper Catches Skin and Dada, Alice puts out a decidedly non-commercial album, one that not only ignores current marketing trends, but goes as far as not yielding even a potential hit single, not to mention being released on a tiny indie label (Spitfire) with little or no marketing potential whatsoever. No one can call Brutal Planet a com­mercial flop: with its subject matters, its sound, and its intentional lack of promotion, it was never supposed to be «huge». This is hardcore Cooper for hardcore fans.

How would an artist like Alice Cooper prefer to greet the new millennium? Quite likely, by cas­ting a wicked glance at the then-and-now and, in his own individual style, telling us the obvious: want it or not, this world pretty much sucked in the past two millennia, goes on sucking today like there was no tomorrow, and is more or less doomed to go soon if things continue the way we continue doing them. Come to think of it, quite a predictable thing to be preached by an old, griz­zled, spiteful, born-again Christian. It all hangs on the manner of preaching.

Brutal Planet is Cooper's heaviest album to date, and possibly ever, and «heavy» here refers both to the music, cast in the questionable, but potentially killer genre of Industrial Metal, and the subject matter, since Alice has apparently decided to address all seven deadly sins and more. Let's see: I clearly perceive wrath ('Wicked Young Man'), greed ('Gimme'), gluttony ('Eat Some More'), uh... well, the rest does not work out so well, but at least you get the basic idea.

Mind you: this is not an intellectual celebration. The lyrics are rarely ambiguous, and the riffs are rarely complex. In a way, this is a retread even from the level of The Last Temptation. But we can buy this regardless of the fact that the number of employed chords is not overwhelming, be­cause Brutal Planet was clearly designed with this idea in mind — someone, thinks Alice, needs to brutally bash the concept of a «brutal planet» into the heads of the current generation. To hell with obscurity and complexity; let us have a simplistic metal ball before we get all blown to the same hell, and who knows, perhaps this simplicity might get at least a few of us to stop and con­sider not being blown to hell after all.

The incessantly ironish guitar tones should not really be hard to bear. Behind them lie standard Alice Cooper pop hooks, much like the ones on Trash, except they have been better fleshed out and their metal encasing is sharp, crisp, and hot, much unlike the commercial gloss of the days of yore. (There have been complaints that, in reality, Alice is simply jumping the freshest band­wagon of nu-metal, but frankly, I do not hear any Korn or Limp Bizkit in these songs, way too truly evil to be compared to these youngsters). The riffs frequently come in pairs — a low, scary one that carries the rhythm, and a higher, whiny one that highlights the pop melody, as you can immediately hear on the title track. The so­los usually come in short, garage-style outbursts: professional, but humble blasts of ass-kicking courtesy of Ryan Roxie, I believe. And the singing... well, that is one area where we should never bother; Alice Cooper is, by all means, guaranteed for life.

As simple as it all sounds, much of it is genius simplicity, plus there are unpredictable touches all the way through. The title track, on which Alice trashes humanity as a whole (admitting, however, that it is really the Biblical serpent who is behind all the shit), introduces, out of nowhere, a drea­my female chorus of rose-colored glasses-wearing angels, which is then contrasted with Cooper's devilish shouting. 'Wicked Young Man', possibly the most hateful send-up of hatred ever put on record ("I read Mein Kampf daily just to keep my hatred fed" transcends simple kitsch and dives head first into Monty Python territory, but that's cool), borrows an alert siren as its second riff. 'It's The Little Things', fastest song on here but also serving as a bit of comic relief, falls back on the legacy by namedropping some of Alice's previous hit titles, etc.

There is also the predictable, although this time decidedly non-hit, ballad ('Take It Like A Wo­man') that is essentially 'Only Women Bleed Part Two'; but it is the only time when the metallic punching fades away, only to come back once more and predict the rise of 'Cold Machines' (yes, what's up with us forgetting about that? thank you for reminding us, Alice!). As monotonous as it all feels together, each hook is different, and although the basic anger behind this is simply Anger, it is exciting to be able to feel Anger at so many different things: the original sinners, the skin­heads, the consumerists, the genocide instigators, the social-darwinists, and all those other inha­bitants of the brutal planet — and it is fairly certain that, in one song at least, you, the reader, will be able to spot yourself, because the Coop spares no one.

Lumping and leaden, impressive and memorable, funny and scary, it is an album that cemented Cooper's status as that of the old guy who made it artistically intact into the new millennium, along with just a bare handful of his colleagues from the old days such as Lou Reed or David Bowie. Heartily recommended for metal fans in general and Alice fans in particular, the heart gives it a thumbs up, and the brain is still trying to figure out how it is possible to squeeze that much sense out of a handful of primitive metal riffs.

Aretha Franklin: Runnin' Out Of Fools

ARETHA FRANKLIN: RUNNIN' OUT OF FOOLS (1964)

1) Mockingbird; 2) How Glad I Am; 3) Walk On By; 4) Every Little Bit Hurts; 5) The Shoop Shoop Song (It's In His Kiss); 6) You'll Lose A Good Thing; 7) I Can't Wait Until I See My Baby's Face; 8) It's Just A Matter Of Time; 9) Runnin' Out Of Fools; 10) My Guy; 11) Two Sides Of Love; 12) One Room Paradise.

Now this is fun. See, all it took was to shift the emphasis from old, rusty pop tunes to new, shinier pop tunes. When the rhythms are livelier, the strings not so overwhelming, the melodies catchier, and the singer is not struggling with the material in order to understand it, but assimilates it in an easy-going, natural way — that is when real life starts to flow.

There is nothing particularly unpredictable about these song selections: Nancy Wilson, Burt Ba­ch­arach, Smokey Robinson, Dionne Warwick, Brenda Holloway, Mary Wells, Betty Everett — Columbia made a thorough study of the big names in the last two years of the music business and unleashed all of them on Aretha, finally realizing that to waste her talents on retro-pop in a clear­ly changing world is spiritually and financially unhealthy. From a possible point of view, Run­ning Out Of Fools is a turning point in Franklin's career — the album where she first emerges as a modern artist, regardless of the rather slight way she does it.

Slight, but not slothful: she understands and likes this new Motown and «para-Motown» brand of semi-pop, semi-R&B, and her interpretations of the classics are well worth judging on their own terms. Of course, she does it the Aretha way. 'Every Little Bit Hurts' used to mix tenderness, vul­nerability and desperation — the way she sings 'Come back to me, I'll make you see..' turns this into a command rather than a plea. 'My Guy', when done by Mary Wells, was a sexy purr that must have made the majority of its male listeners consider competing for the guy's position; Are­tha's interpretation discards the sex kitten associations and becomes a feminist stance — her "no­thing in the world can keep me away from my guy" is not an oath of loyalty, it just means that the poor guy has little choice, and woe to him if he does try out any alternatives.

The choices could have been better; there is still too much emphasis on similar-sounding ballads, especially on the second side (the first one is at least redeemed with such colourful pop tunes as 'Mock­ingbird', 'Walk On By', and 'The Shoop Shoop Song'). But in general, the album is no better and no worse than any normal Motownish album of the era by any of Motown's great performers. Never mind that this is not at all the kind of sound with which we associate Aretha Franklin today; there is no harm in hearing her — for once, at least — applying her talents to the sounds of light­weight pop entertainers of the day, in a way, making it more heavyweight. Thumbs up.

B. B. King: The Blues

B. B. KING: THE BLUES (1958)

1) Why Does Everything Happen To Me; 2) Ruby Lee; 3) When My Heart Beats Like A Hammer; 4) Past Day; 5) Boogie Woogie Woman; 6) Early Every Morning; 7) I Want To Get Married; 8) That Ain't The Way To Do It; 9) Troubles, Troubles, Troubles; 10) Don't You Want A Man Like Me; 11) You Know I Go For You; 12) What Can I Do?.

Singin' The Blues is at least historically important in that it collects B. B.'s hit singles from an entire half-decade; by the time it became necessary to issue a follow-up, with LPs slowly, but ste­adily taking on as a medium at least as important as the 45", the golden vaults were exhausted, and so, this and the following several LPs are extremely uneven on the commercial scale.

On the other hand, The Blues is where King truly begins to demonstrate traces of stylistic ver­satility and show how easily he can adapt himself to different times. If the debut LP was mostly li­mited to «hardcore blues» and «blues ballads», here we have ourselves some bossa nova ('Ruby Lee', 'Don't You Want A Man Like Me'), some stompin' boogie ('Boogie Woogie Woman', 'That Ain't The Way To Do It'), and even a timid attempt at a rawer rockabilly sound ('Early Every Morning').

It is quite transparent that B. B. is trying to toughen up his image: there are practically no at­tempts at crooning, and most of the «soul» attitude is sacrificed in order to make space for more rock'n'roll. However, just like before, the songs are simply way too short, and have been cut way too quickly, for any of this material to acquire some individuality, and, from the first track to the last, it merely plays as acceptable background music with stylish (for their time) guitar licks.

The only «classic» hit here was 'When My Heart Beats Like A Hammer', which, in its studio ver­sion, is simply one more undistinguishable example of blues-de-luxe (slow tempo, brass section, soulful vocals, recognizable soloing, B. B. had like a million of these songs out back in those days); seek out various live versions to explore its true potential. The «sleeper» is 'Early Every Morning', which does have one of the best examples of King's fast playing on record (much more fluent and complex than Chuck Berry's, but also, predictably, less ass-kicking).

Black Mountain: Black Mountain

BLACK MOUNTAIN: BLACK MOUNTAIN (2005)

1) Modern Music; 2) Don't Run Our Hearts Around; 3) Druganaut; 4) No Satisfaction; 5) Set Us Free; 6) No Hits; 7) Heart Of Snow; 8) Faulty Times.

What is it that makes neo-hippies different from old time hippies? In pure theory, the easiest thing is to say «Every­thing!» and go on a lengthy rant about imminently changing times. But, having listened to Black Mountain now, I suppose one could be prompted to think twice about that. These guys have shrunk down my conscience just as neatly as they happened to expand it.

Black Mountain, formerly called the «Back Mountain Army» (or, rather, the latter was basically Black Mountain the band plus a bunch of friends, relatives, roadies, cats, dogs, and crack whores), hail from Canada, an ideal place for all the neo-hippies to hail from — tasty social benefits and plenty of open space to procrastinate on, if one doesn't mind a little winter cold. Presumably, they are neo-hippies, but better than most: they not only call themselves artists, they also work pretty hard to deserve that title, which is a rarity.

The band's music has gained critical praise (otherwise I wouldn't have known about them), and the band itself has accumulated a moderate fan base, but overall my impression is that «The Peo­ple» have generally been colder towards Black Mountain than «The Judges». This is probably be­cause «The Peo­ple» tend to get irritated when the careful ratio of modern-to-ancient gets signifi­cantly tipped in favour of the latter — and Black Mountain make little, if any, secret about their musical ideals. Let us count off just a few models of adoration: (a) The Jefferson Airplane, (b) Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young... (c) ...& Young again, solo this time; (d) Blue Cheer (I was going to write 'Black Sabbath', but they do not care much for the ultra-heavy Sabbath guitar tone, so Blue Cheer is more like it; (e) The Grateful Dead; (f) The Jefferson Airplane again, because there is just no other way to stress how much these guys want to pass themselves off for a modern day 'Plane. Even their lead singer takes some bad cues from Marty Balin, while their lead singerine takes some good cues from Grace Slick.

The band's message is spelt out pretty transparently in the second song: "Let's find a better place, and quit this whole damn race" — not even the Airplane were that blunt about it. With a theme like that, you'd expect the underlying music to be pretty paranoid, and it is. Worried, nervous, consta­ntly shifting melodies, graced with lyrical themes of disgust ('No Hits', 'No Satisfaction', 'Faulty Times'), escape ('Don't Run Our Hearts Around', 'Set Us Free'), and passing out ('Drug­anaut') — although, to be frank, drugs as such have relatively little space on the album.

If the general feel of things is that simple, the only way Black Mountain could turn into an exci­ting record would be through songwriting — and performance. Well, one thing that can definitely be said in favour of it is that it is undeniably fun, no matter how bleak it sometimes sounds. From the opening comic chord of the saxophone and right down to the final wall-of-sound blast of 'Fau­lty Times', it is totally non-boring to wait for whatever else the band has in store for us. And, sin­ce they take their lessons from so many teachers, you can never tell if the next song is going to be fuzzy and carnivalesque ('Modern Music'), or strewn with mean heavy riffage ('Druganaut'), or be combining a kind of one-note Velvet Undeground drone with a lyrical nod to the Rolling Stones ('No Satisfaction' — which, musically, is sort of what happens when you mix 'Waiting For The Man' with 'Sing This All Together'), or invoke a sanctified Old Testamental spirit ('Set Us Free'). One song, 'No Hits', even goes out of the way to establish a techno rhythm and pierce you with a fully certified electronic arrangement — but even then, in a way, I see them as paying tribute to the likes of the Silver Apples and early Krautrock artists rather than Aphex Twin or Autechre.

On their own, the songs are nothing special. For each of these melodies, a Sixties musicologist will have little trouble establishing an exact list of sources. The playing — technically — is good, but nothing too extraordinary or virtuoso-style. The lead singer (Stephen McBean) has a «little guy» type of nasal whine that will not be for everyone; the second lead singer, Amber Webber, does a much better job at convincing me that the end of the world is near — and yet I still cannot see her beating Grace Slick, whom she quite obviously does set out to try to beat.

But, admittedly, this is a good, not bad example of kowtowing: they understand the spirit of how-it-used-to-be and they are capable of conjuring it. If the Jefferson Airplane were a necessary ingredient of their ge­neration, and if today's generation needs another Jefferson Airplane, en­ri­ched by the experience of the previous Jefferson Airplane, so be it. From my own point of view, Black Mountain do not say anything that I have not already heard — but what they repeat are pleasant sayings, and I do not mind at all to hear them again in a new combination. The heart, un­fortunately, refuses to budge, because a tribute is a tribute, no matter how many different people you are trying to pay tribute to all at once. But the brain has appreciated the complexity and un­predictability of the tribute, and, in the hopes of seeing the band eventually mature into something bigger than the sum of its influences, advances them a thumbs up. As a bonus provocation, try to find for yourself which of the eight songs quotes musically from 'Paint It Black'. (That's the one I spotted. There may be a miriad of others as well).

Angra: Holy Live

ANGRA: HOLY LIVE (1997)

1) Crossing; 2) Nothing To Say; 3) Z.I.T.O.; 4) Carolina IV; 5) Unfinished Allegro; 6) Carry On.

Live, recorded at some Paris venue in 1996 — easy to tell if you know enough French to at least under­stand Matos' exploding "BONSOIR PARIS!" in between tracks. His French is not entirely accent-free, by the way, but quite extraordinary for the average level of a foreign musical perfor­mer; if there is anything that may bug a sensitive ear, it is the arena-rock intonations of his stage banter that, in my opinion, do not fit the elegance of Angra's music. Yes, it is heavy, but it is still «progressive» rather than «party» music, and Angra's anthems do not need any additional goa­ding to drive the listeners crazy.

Other than that, Holy Live is an excellent snap of Angra at their peak, and a very fortunate one considering just how short that peak turned out to be. The songs are not at all different from their studio incarnations, but the band members still manage to insert just a wee touch of extra live po­wer that makes the experience individually worthwhile. Thus, they have no way of replicating all the complex percussion parts of the «tribal» part of 'Carolina IV', but they compensate for it by making the underlying guitar riffage more loud and crunchy (and hats off to Matos for carrying over the chill-sending effect of "So, won't you come with me my friend..." to perfection).

We can only regret that the album is so shamefully short — it is, in fact, in EP format, barely run­ning over 35 minutes, and, in all honesty, containing only four actual songs ('Crossing' and 'Un­finished Allegro' are intros rather than full-bodied independent entities). Apparently, there were certain technical difficulties in recording more material, and these precious shards are all we're left with (at least the sound quality is untouchable). The band would remedy this five years later, with Rebirth World Tour, but, alas, by that time its creative engine would already be spent.

A-ha: Foot Of The Mountain

A-HA: FOOT OF THE MOUNTAIN (2009)

1) The Bandstand; 2) Riding The Crest; 3) What There Is; 4) Foot Of The Mountain; 5) Real Meaning; 6) Shadow­side; 7) Nothing Is Keeping You Here; 8) Mother Nature Goes To Heaven; 9) Sunny Mystery; 10) Start The Simulator..

Yes, I do believe that only a serious decision to split up for good could have redeemed the release of Foot Of The Mountain. It does not happen too often when an artist releases his weakest effort right after his strongest one, and it is an even more rare case when it is so very easy to precisely pin­point what the hell went wrong, and so very hard to understand why it went so wrong.

The melodies are okay. All the songs are originals, and expert songwriters like Paul and Magne do not simply shed their pop skills overnight. This is A-Ha all right, simple, but effective key­board chord changes and Morten «Penthouse Romance» Harket's angelic croon all over them. But for some devilish reason, someone in the devil's personal pay suggested that it would be nice to revisit the band's original synth-pop style. After all, Sixties' nostalgia does not pay off so well any more — whoever buys records when they're over sixty? But Eighties' nostalgia — now we're tal­king. Lots of hungry fourty-year olds out there, yearning for another 'Take On Me'. And even those old hairstyles, ridiculed and seemingly forgotten a long time ago, are on the verge of beco­ming fashionable once more.

And so Foot Of The Mountain takes the plunge; but these guys are not adolescents any more, they could not really produce another 'Take On Me' even under the threat of having their entire catalog pulled off the shelves. The final result sounds like a clumsy cross between the cheesy, but explosive synth-pop of Hunting High And Low and the boring, overproduced, meaninglessly modernistic pap of Life(less)lines. If there are good songs buried here — and I freely admit this possibility — they are not merely buried, but nailed tight to their coffin with the finest in elec­tronic stakes.

The synth tones that Magne is choosing do sound fairly close to what it used to be, but they do not, cannot, need not, must not convey any real emotion. Listen to the ten seconds that open the album ('The Bandstand'): this is what it all sounds like, more or less. Silly techno sounds, but this time around, without the youthful drive that somehow redeemed them in the past. Just silly, for­get­table techno sounds.

I refuse to name individual songs or discuss them. Re-record them with guitars and pianos and we might resume this discussion. (Actually, the title track that is dominated by a piano melody, is the closest it ever gets to an effective song). As it is, I personally will prefer to think that the true swan song of A-Ha sounded four years earlier, with Analog. Foot Of The Mountain is merely an afterthought, a misguided, clueless «gift» to their oldest fans. Quite likely, some of the oldest fans may have been pleased with it. More power to them! I give it a thumbs down. And — how dare they even say 'Riding The Crest' has been inspired by Arcade Fire's Neon Bible!

AC/DC: Black Ice

AC/DC: BLACK ICE (2008)

1) Rock'n'Roll Train; 2) Skies On Fire; 3) Big Jack; 4) Anything Goes; 5) War Machine; 6) Smash'n'Grab; 7) Spoilin' For A Fight; 8) Wheels; 9) Decibel; 10) Stormy May Day; 11) She Likes Rock'n'Roll; 12) Money Made; 13) Rock'n'­Roll Dream; 14) Rocking All The Way; 15) Black Ice.

With most of its members steadily nearing pension age, each new AC/DC album is a curio in it­self, and if there is one reason behind people sweeping it off the racks, it is most likely the need to find out — do they still deliver the kind of crunch that is at least comparable to their classic hits? Can they still cut it? Can I still bang my head to it?

This time the firm of Young, Johnson, & Young, Inc., has pushed the waiting period even further: almost eight years between albums. But the length does not really matter. In a certain sense, the last ever AC/DC album — and not a very fine one — was Ballbreaker. Both Stiff Upper Lip and Black Ice function on a different plane: their aim is not to continue the band's career, but ra­ther to remind us, occasionally, of the band's existence. And in between reminders, they can take as much time as they want.

Which is why Black Ice got mostly positive responses. It's not because the songs are good — frankly speaking, they are not — it is because, deep down inside, we have all been waiting with accumulating impatience for a new AC/DC album. Then it finally comes out. What's it like? How is Brian's voice? Well, it got better, not exactly Back In Black, but at least back in shades of grey, one can easily listen to it without cringing. How are the guitars? Well, how can the guitars be? Did we seriously expect the Young brothers to switch to banjos and ukuleles? How is Phil Rudd doing on the drums? Well, unless they cut off his arms and legs, he will always be the perfect drummer for this band. Okay, stop right here. Five stars out of five? No, wait, let's make that four stars out of five. After all, only Back In Black can have five.

Black Ice does break some of the rules of decency. First, fifteen songs is way too much. I under­stand the Youngs must have accumulated quite a lot during these eight years, but the more songs there are on an AC/DC album, the easier it is to spot reused riffs (e. g. 'Spoilin' For A Fight' = 'Bedlam In Belgium', etc.). Second, they do not need to convince me that they represent the old guard faithfully protecting the legacy of rock'n'roll. 'Rock'n'Roll Train', 'She Likes Rock'n'Roll', 'Rock'n'Roll Dream', 'Rocking All The Way' — guys, enough already. Not even Chuck Berry was that obnoxious with his titles.

Third and related, the lead single, 'Rock'n'Roll Train', is not very helpful. AC/DC are at their most punchy with tight, angry, focused tunes, in which respect 'Stiff Upper Lip' was an excellent cho­ice; but this here bombastic anthem, instead, tries to invade the territory of 'Highway To Hell', and, although musically they are about equally simplistic, the latter was at least provoking, while 'Rock'n'Roll Train' simply breeds a bunch of stadium-happy chords. Anthems, with few excep­tions, are embarrassing in general; late-period AC/DC anthems are embarrassing in particular.

So it could have been better. But let me, nevertheless, join the chorus and say that an AC/DC al­bum of such caliber is perfectly welcome every ten years (maybe even every five years, although I doubt they are capable today of meeting those deadlines). The 'Hail Caesar'-ish menace returns with the fire and smoke of 'War Machines'; the power-poppy charm of Razor's Edge finds a wor­thy successor in 'Big Jack'; in a rare experimental mood, Angus successfully deflowers the slide guitar on 'Stormy May Day', reminiscent of Led Zeppelin's 'In My Time Of Dyin' but not truly ripping it off, as some pessi­mists have complained; and Brian Johnson follows suit by trying on the shoes of Robert Plant (!) in 'Rock'n'Roll Dream', arguably the closest these guys have ever come to art-rock in their career (if you do not believe it, check the eerie «crowing» effects at the end of the song and tell me there is a precedent).

Best of the bunch, however, is 'Anything Goes', a brawny pub-rock tune that explodes with the kind of shiny happy delight one could frequently see on albums by Brian Johnson's original band, Geordie. It is sometimes mentioned that producer Brendan O'Brien was constantly pushing Brian towards singing rather than screaming, calling him a «soul singer» throughout the sessions, and on one song at least, Johnson has managed to remember the way it used to be in the 1970s — to terrific effect. The result is an uplifting, powerful tune, absolutely unoriginal, but delightfully bre­a­king up the monotonousness of the band's hard rock crunch. They even took it with themselves onstage — and as much as I hate to admit it, this is the singing style that best suits Johnson's voice and personality, which, in turn, leads to uncomfortable thoughts about how the man has been pretty much sacrificing himself for the past thirty years. But if he gets at least one song like this per album from now on, the payback will be sufficient.

Like Stiff Upper Lip, Black Ice is the kind of an album that is only real good while it is still real hot — we listen to it to celebrate the phenomenon of AC/DC in the 21st century, not as the first choice to satisfy our basic craving for kick-ass rock'n'roll. But what's wrong about a little celeb­rating? Thumbs up for all the good times these guys have given us.