I am not cool, but it occasionally appears that way cuz my incidental awareness of cutting-edge music. There’s a simple reason for that, one which I share with tons of other fortunates out there: I have an older sibling. She’s cool. She dated cool guys. Those cool punk and alternative and goth guys stopped at nothing to get within sniffing distance of her bod; as such, most found it worthwhile to cultivate the kid-brother endorsement.

The astute dudes recognized that the way to my heart is through my headphones and funneled a lot of free tapes (!) and CDs my way. (One particularly smitten Doc Martens aficionado worked at local college radio and hooked me up with my own evening time slot when I was 15.) My sister and I hardly got along, so my input on her suitors was never solicited, much less heeded; I thank her for neglecting to mention this fact to all those hornballs whose awareness of interesting music exploded my horizons.

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[The seven-inch record is a cornerstone for hardcore music. Unlike metal that has diminished vinyl while perversely fetishizing it, hardcore continues to depend on the format as an essential platform for disseminating music. Characteristically shorter song lengths make it possible for a band in this scene to make a statement over the course of multiple tracks and provide it in a way that is affordable. The purpose of this column is to identify and offer short critiques of some new and recent releases in the 7" format.]

Last year, Defeater dropped an unexpectedly obtuse bit of hardcore into our laps with Lost Ground, a literally historic EP given its World War II subject matter. The titular A-side of the Dear Father (Bridge Nine) 7″ matches the tenor of that material though the track leans further towards the melodic, hinting at what’s to come from the upcoming LP. On the flipside, however, is “I Don’t Mind”, a passable Jack Johnson-esque acoustic number better served for a side-project.

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With the occasional exception, guitar solo albums are basically ear porn. I mean, a feature film depends on things like narrative coherence and visual aesthetics, but porn consists merely of all-star fuck machines slamming junk. So the comparison to guitar mega-wankery is obvious: To dispense with the frills (lyrics, vocals) and just get to the acrobatics magnifies one aspect of music to veiny, cartoonish proportions. Shit, have you ever made it to the end of a guitar album? Have you ever sat down with some popcorn and enjoyed 50 straight minutes of dimly-lit shag videos? For non-weirdos, each answer probably is a firm no.

That’s why it’s so fucknuts when a shred album works. But it has happened. Cuz to some guitar records, there’s a message despite the absence of a vocalist; others succeed by sheer momentum and irresistible, awe-striking displays of skill; and at least one guitar instrumental album is a staggering work of narrative art every bit as epic as the greatest conventional rock record. Great guitar albums are hard to find; according to our own analogy above, the creation of one is as unlikely as an Oscar win for All Tit-Fucking Vol. 8. But defying the odds and deserving a spot in every music library are the following awesome axgasms:

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Though a blockbuster success, Whitesnake’s self-titled (or 1987) record doesn’t really cut it for me. The singles tell the story, with four steps back for each forward: “Still of the Night” is a monster jam, but “Here I Go Again” is only slightly too heavy for Journey, while the lameness of “Is This Love” might offend fans of freaking Kenny G. I won’t even listen to “Crying In The Rain” or “Give Me All Your Love” without double-condoms on my ears.

It’s funny cuz my upturned nose at 1987 is inconsistent with my throbbing, veiny worship of the album creators’ next two albums: the Steve Vai-charged Whitesnake record Slip Of The Tongue (from singer David Coverdale and crew) and the debut effort by Blue Murder (from summarily fired Slide It In/1987 guitarist John Sykes). It seems that most Whitesnake fans — lovers of bluesy tales of heartbreak and handjobs — reject the guitar wiz cacophony of Slip and they have a point: At a glance, its guitar work in general resembles an album-length harmonizer demo (See Strapping Young Lad’s “Satan’s Ice Cream Truck”). The point is that, though Slip crushes, I understand why it underachieved.

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In retrospect, when you take the ’90s Unplugged craze out of the equation, stripping your band to its acoustic core is a pretty ballsy thing to do. As the last few decades have lead to exponentially more overdubs and walls of amps, “unplugging” one’s self is a good way to show one’s chops as a songwriter (or one’s lack of them). Obviously, “unplugged” has become a slang term for shamelessly neutering your music for a blunt and/or vulgar attempt at crossover appeal, a condescending cash grab that assumes, “Hey, girls don’t like my band ‘cuz it’s too loud, but what if I sit on a barstool and play this acoustic guitar?” Acoustic albums have generally been driven out of the collective consciousness, and, in retrospect, for good reason.

Which is why Wino’s acoustic album, Adrift, is such a pleasant anomaly. It’s at once a cogitatively dissonant idea (one of metal’s biggest non-Dio legends puts out a completely non-heavy album?) and a perfectly sensible one (Wino’s bands and solo material haven’t exactly been an exercise in atonal brutality). Like any other doom metal innovator, if you stick a guitar in his hand, quality riffs will spring forth. But hearing them in exclusively this context is interesting: metal can use heaviness as a crutch, and Adrift never relies on it. Though it’s not perfect, the album never lapses into dullness. You never wish a band would kick in. Metal isn’t exactly known for being intimate, but here, Wino leaves himself completely vulnerable. Adrift’s success or failure rests entirely on his shoulders, and if there’s anyone who could flourish under that sort of pressure, it’s him.

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The newly-announced Poison and Motley Crue US tour is nice, but Sweden pretty much has got the whole sleaze rock thing down properly. There’s Crashdiet, the glam-rock forefathers of Swede sleaze; Reckless Love, who, if they’d been any fluffier, could be substituted for Easter animals; and my personal favorite Hardcore Superstar, who are harder and more thrash/punk than glam.

Crazy Lixx lands smack in the middle of this (and more — the UK is getting in on the sleaze action and the less said about that right now the better). Their songs are basically pop songs performed really loud with a couple extra guitars. Formed in 2002, this four-piece from Malmo, Sweden has so far put out only two albums. The first of which, 2007’s Loud Minority, is nearly impossibly to get. (Luckily, I have a nice Australian friend coming through for me. See, this is why you make friends with other countries. To get music. Worked when I was trying to track down Kvelertak too.)

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Thursday I wrote that MetalSucks honchos Vince Neilstein and Axl Rosenberg (pictured here) left me in charge of this site while they visit Mexico for cheap plastic surgery conduct some out-of-town business. And my first order as acting chief was the establishment of an anything-goes No-Pants Zone so we could all get loose, party naked, and forget about stern, veiny bands like Chimaira and noodlephiliacs like The Ocean for five goddamn minutes. But now, just as my nutz are finally unfurled in full, orders have come down from on high (cough Axl) that today MS will cover the unveiling of All Shall Perish’s new jam “Divine Illusion” (to play it you’ll be asked to “like” ASP on Facebook). It’s from their forthcoming fourth album which is slated for release in time for their big summer tour with Disturbed and Godsmack. So yep, pants back on everybody. Turn those smiles upside down and soften those bonerz! It’s serious metal time! I punch your head!

–ADF

All Shall Perish is on tour now with Katakylsm, Conducting From The Grave, and Abysmal Dawn. Dates here. Anso DF loves The Ocean, Chimaira, and ASP and sucks at trolling.

Billboard ran a story on Wednesday that seemed to credit Motley Crue drummer Tommy Lee as stating that “the film adaptation of the Crue’s 2002 memoir The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band … is now on track with Rob Zombie as it’s director. [sic]” It’s odd that this tasty bit of breaking news appeared outside of quotes while every other semi-coherent Lee mumbling was firmly attributed to the Methods of Mayhem frontman (if not represented by accurately punctuated copy). It’s extra odd because Rob Zombie would be such an odd match for The Dirt, unless there’s a new script that includes murderous hillbillies or dick-biting ghouls. And it’s super-mega-odd cuz according to Zombie, it’s untrue. He said as much Thursday on his Twitter:

Why does everyone keep asking if I am directing The Dirt? I am not. I am directing The Lords of Salem. Recording a CD after that.

Why does everyone keep asking Zombie that? Well, I am half-retarded on drugs and even I can answer that one: This rumor has Nikki Sixx’s gooey fingerprints all over it. It sounds dramatic to suggest that Sixx is launching an underhanded public campaign to railroad Zombie into helming this doomed flick, but if you think so that means you’ve forgotten that Sixx views himself as a string-pulling maestro who can bend anyone to his will. And hey I’d suffer from the same delusion if I successfully banged Kat Von D for like months. So, the lesson here is Kat Von D call me and all will see who the real puppetmaster is here.

–ADF

Rob Zombie’s The Lords of Salem is slated to begin shooting this Spring. Motley Crue joins Poison and The New York Dolls on tour kicking off June 7 in Dallas. Full dates here.

Sometimes the most obvious or silliest captions win, so long as they’re worded cleverly. So it went with last week’s contest, the winners of which will receive a copy of Rotten Sound‘s new record Cursed. The best captions to the photo at right, as chosen by moi:

• Michel Giroux-Burroughs: “This cat doesn’t have 9 lives, he’s IMMORTAL!”
• Kevy Metal: “That reminds me… Time to give the cat Abbath.”

This week we’ve got a copy of the Six Feet Under DVD Wake the Night! Live in Germany to bestow upon you, only fitting given the recent news of Six Feet Under partnering with Chimaira’s Rob Arnold. The below photo was sent in by reader Jesse Blake and comes from the highly excellent site People of Walmart, an Interhole site you should definitely check out the next time you’ve got some of your boss’s time and money to waste. So do what you do: come up with the funniest caption to the below photo and drop it in the comments. Remember to use a real email address (or post it with your comment if you’re using FB Connect).

It’s kinda common knowledge that Steel Panther is the best live show like ever. If you disagree, that means you haven’t seen their show or that you hate fun, equally odious offenses at this point. So, to approximate the Steel Panther concert rapture, just remember your most cherished, slamming, no-dip-in-momentum live experience, then augment it with hilariousness and toplessness and drugs and great hair and a flying guitar solo and celebrity guest bloopers. That’s Steel Panther live. It is a manifestation of heaven on earth.

The fun stuff is fun, but most importantly, Steel Panther is a musician’s band. It’s tightness that allows S’Panther to slay all those hair rock classics thereby transcending bad karaoke or wedding band hell. It’s harder than it looks. My most boner-bending Steel Panther gig opened with “Panama” (smack in singer Michael Starr’s DLR wheelhouse) and “Up All Night” (goosebumps) and then “Shout At The Devil” (suck it, Vince Neil), but it’s with great sadness that I report that I’ve never seen them make fuck to Whitesnake’s titanic jam “Still of the Night” (above). Lexxi Foxxx owns!

–ADF

Before there were blogs there were these things called magazines, and the only metal magazine we still get excited about reading every month is Decibel. Here’s managing editor Andrew Bonazelli…

I’m selfish/insensitive enough that, when it was announced last November that King Diamond was hospitalized for triple bypass surgery, my first thought was, “Oh shit, now we’ll never get Mercyful Fate in the Hall of Fame.” You know, as opposed to, “Oh shit, I hope this human being who has entertained and captivated metal fans for over a quarter-century is okay, much less his loving family.” No, being an asshole isn’t easy. One has to work at it. Anyway, everything more or less turned out okay—not only was the great Dane discharged in December to recuperate at home, but we had already conducted two-fifths of the required interviews to make a Melissa feature a reality, King being among them. Hence, a pretty colorful, totally essential feature for April. Oh, and if you prefer King Diamond the band’s classic ghost tales, stay tuned for a very special black horseman’s arrival in a dB somewhere down the line.

Back to Melissa, though. Its induction opens up a familiar Pandora’s box. Most fans argue that—not unlike Venom’s Welcome to Hell and Black Metal—Melissa and sophomore sensation Don’t Break the Oath are equally ripping. Our contention is that Melissa has the more memorable set of tunes, and that most Oath-swearing is due to the fact that the LP afforded Mercyful Fate reams of exposure via their first U.S. tour. And not that this contributes all that much to said debate, but Decibel EIC Albert Mudrian, as big a Maiden apologist as—well, that’s not true; some of our staff writers are even more nuts—but whatever: he contends that Leyton’s finest ripped off the main riff to Fate’s “Curse of the Pharaohs” on Powerslave hit “2 Minutes to Midnight.” More food for your skull. What do you think?

-AB

You can buy the April 2011 issue of Decibel here, or just get a full subscription to ensure that you never miss an awesome Hall of Fame entry.

The first time I ever heard Cradle of Filth, it was 2000 and I’d been sent an advance of Midian. I remember being majoring pumped after first jam “Cthulhu Dawn” but um that was it. I was in Yawnsville starting with the next song and ending … well, let’s just say I had to buy a residence in Yawnsville to accommodate my visits with Cradle of Filth. But that first jam is still in my head all the time, especially when I watch Ricky Gervais’ original version of The Office during which I go all goo-goo for the charming, cuddly, snuggly, lovelorn Dawn Tinsley (above), played by Lucy Davis (Shaun of the Dead). She’s incredible! So you can easily understand why “Cthulhu Dawn” started blaring in my brain the very instant that I read the motherfucking news that Davis is single! From The Daily Mail:

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It’s not fair to count Queensryche among the great, horrible post-fame implosions like Metallica or Eddie Murphy; the Seattle band’s descent into crumminess was far less cataclysmic, more akin to a weather-beaten house’s piece-by-piece collapse than the toppling of a high rise by a C4 fireball. But the sad fact remains that post-1993 Queensryche is a patience-testing proposition; albums seem tired and tend to implicate their authors as out of love with the creation of music.

Hey, it’s understandable if for no other reason than their grueling tour for 1990’s triple-platinum Empire. Shows numbered in excess of 150 over 18 months, and each 2.5 hour show opened with an mini-set of mostly Empire stuff, then Operation: Mindcrime in its Tate-exhausting entirety, plus two encores. That’s enough worldwide grinding to snuff out inspiration in even the most prolific, expressive songwriter, of which Queensryche soon found themselves one short following the 1997 departure of guitarist Chris DeGarmo. By that point, Queensryche was sounding downright ragged and, evidently, uninterested in quality sonics.

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Not you after today

In the past few years, my group of friends has come to include a bunch of fancy-pants musicians-for-hire. They get majorly paid for backing gigs and session work cuz they execute on their instruments with nuclear precision. And it’s great hanging out with them for their big shot habits of picking up every check and throwing exquisite summer parties. You want that — we all do. But maybe you don’t have the time to, say, top your class at Juilliard or grind out a degree from Berklee. Hey, even if you did, you’d just as soon end up posting internet clips of yourself blasting through BTBAM runs and Hammerfall solos unless you move to West Hollywood and starve for two years. Meh.

Well, here’s good news! You can still get chicks horny and sound good enough for Youtube and hold up to passing scrutiny and possibly even land a gig in a million-selling metal band! Unlike violin, for example, guitar isn’t that hard to fake provided you master picking fast and good pitch on bends. To play Steve Vai, you’d have to match his regimen of 23 daily practice hours; for the following face-melters — ear-friendly, multi-leveled solos every one — all that’s required is like 23 total minutes. Let’s call it the Hammett Workout. Not everybody is “Under A Glass Moon” material, but just approximate these imprecise, jabby solos and I swear you’ll look cool! Check it:

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A brief period in the late ’80s and early ’90s yielded a fantastical number of cutting-edge metal bands. Today, fans of this pre-internet groundswell of proggy, arty, and otherwise undefinable bands can rejoice at the reactivation of Coroner, Anacrusis, and the great Atheist. But conspicuously absent is Milwaukee’s Realm, once most likely to succeed among their high-brow ilk. Realm is also noteworthy as Roadrunner A&R giant Monte Conner’s very first signing, one that preceded Sepultura, Obituary, and fellow Wisconsinites Last Crack. Aside from some classy but low-profile reissues of Realm’s dual masterpieces Endless War and Suiciety, Realm buzz has remained low — especially for a band who left fans hanging without completing their sure-to-be awesome third album. I tracked down founding guitarist Takis Kinis (also ex-Beatallica) to get answers to largely unasked questions, and his insights go beyond Realm minutiae to form a sort of Do’s and Don’ts manual for budding young bands. Incredibly, Conner himself took time to stroll down Realm’s memory lane and provide even more invaluable peeks behind the music business curtain (look for his comments in gray). Don’t understand how a brilliant band doesn’t “make it”? Want to avoid the pitfalls of youthful bravado? Thinking of covering a famous Beatles song? Just want to get hip to two of metal’s most overlooked masterpieces? Read on.

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Fig A: Coolness over time (musician vs non-musicians)

If you ask the average person on the street, they all know that musicians are broke, dysfunctional, smug, self-centered, arrogant, unhygenic, elisist, socially inept losers with no future. As much as I believe in the wisdom of crowds, I wondered: what does SCIENCE have to say about this topic? Clearly guys in bands are losers, but what can we learn by digging deeper? Exactly what is the sad life-trajectory of the archetypal band loser??

To answer this question, I did some rigorous statistical analysis of two randomly-selected groups of guys: one cohort who devoted their lives to music, the other who were normal, healthy, everyday people whose association with music began and ended with whatever was on the radio. Figure A illustrates the highlights, but after the break are the SHOCKING RESULTS of our study!

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Though best known for her bass work in Hole and The Smashing Pumpkins, Melissa Auf der Maur is a formidable solo artist in her own right. In 2004, she dropped her self-titled debut Auf der Maur, a clamorous yet thoroughly melodic effort. Guests on the record read like an alt. rock primer: Eric Erlandson, James Iha, Mark Lanegan, and John Stanier played on it, along with pretty much everyone who was in Queens Of The Stone Age at the time. Lead single “Followed The Waves” (video above) showcases heavier tendencies merely hinted at on Celebrity Skin and singularly puts to shame that gothic schlock that passes for female-fronted metal these days. Auf der Maur is the real deal, devoid of gimmicks and gaudy glamour shots, and it frustrates me that it didn’t get more traction post-release.

Tonight, Auf der Maur plays a special one-off concert at New York’s Highline Ballroom. I cannot stress enough to anyone familiar with her work how rare an opportunity this is. I sure as hell wont be missing this one.

-GS

It’s been a while since we’ve gotten any update on the condition of MetalSucks’ very favorite free speech activist/leukemia survivor/metal stud Adam “Nergal” Darski of Behemoth. So if I’ve seemed a little snippy lately, that’s the reason. I’ve been tense. And I apologize to you. I shouldn’t have yelled at you on Friday for spilling the Skittles. That was wrong of me. But hey, it’s hard to control these ups and downs along Darski’s path to recovery: Great news came back in November when a compatible bone marrow donor was found, and the situation improved further in January upon word of his departure from hospital. But four weeks ago, Darski was re-admitted for an infection and has yet to complete any post-procedure interviews so, man, my imagination is going crazy. Is everything okay? At what stage is his post-op recovery? When can we expect his return to music? Did he get my cookie bouquet?

Well, Wednesday brought a massive sigh of relief cuz Darski looks pretty okay in pics from his visit to a music school in Gdansk where he jammed on a tasty White Falcon. Translated from Musicollecive.pl [all sic]:

Probably many of you are surprised that the musician playing a strong, heavy and dark music also deals with the Jazz, Blues and Country! Here’s Nergal himself with his new love, of course a guitar — cult guitar Gretsch White Falcon! He works for a new project, which will be loud! :)

Adam Darski get well soon! And um call me!

–ADF

Individuality is sacred and everything, but I am way fascinated by records that are loved by bajillions. Some are uninspired cop-outs stripped of any challenge to the ear (Metallica’s black album) and others are awesome enough to find a big audience despite their adventurousness (Tool’s Ænima). Others split the difference (Def Leppard’s Hysteria). One face-fucking album that belongs in that second category is the understated, fickle fourth Coroner album, Mental Vortex. Its identity is a bit nebulous — not least of all due to a great but oddball cover of “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” — but, like a slightly foreign language, Vortex thrills the ear once you’ve become fluent in its idioms. The shit jams!

And hey, even if the album fails to go beyond footnote status in the history of metal, there are individual jamz on Mental Vortex that hang with any of your favorites. “Metamorphosis” rides a low-imagination verse riff into a staggeringly beautiful chorus; the solo passage in “Pale Sister” ensures that I’ll never need boner pills; and, well, “Sirens” is PERFECTION thanks to its poignant chorus lyric, masterful solo passage, and collection of no fewer than nine winning riffs. It’s not just a jam, it’s an educational experience on how to craft the perfect metal song. Every band should pirate its ever-climbing tension. And how the intro’s second act (right before vocals enter) presages the aforementioned magical chorus in “Metamorphosis.” An MI class could be taught around its intra- and inter-riff dynamics. I swear if this song talked to me in a bar, I’d roofie it. No remorse.

–ADF

Pack your shit and get to the first Coroner shows in 16 years this summer at Maryland Deathfest, Hellfest, Bloodstock and a few others.

Holy ballz! This is so awesome. Those two stuffed shirts Neilstein and Rosenberg are out of town on a gay cruise on business and they left me in charge. And with those macho tyrants (pictured here) away, we’re free to make MetalSucks a No-Pants Zone (NPZ). So get yer kits off! Oh and in an NPZ, the second rule (after mandatory nakey cheeks) requires a tasty up-with-party-people jam to properly peel our brain bananas. Hmm I got just the thing: some Enuff Z’Nuff, whose debut single (above) would’ve been a success if released five years earlier than 1989 back when hair ruled. Or, alternately, “New Thing” would’ve owned 1994 if Enuff Z’nuff had been packaged as a slacker Brit dunno band like Oasis and the Stone Roses. Huh I’m kinda like that too — get a different haircut or a time machine and I could’ve been one of those superstar journalists you see mobbed on the street and shirtless on the cover of Rolling Stone. Came this close!

–ADF