The moment that best defines Årabrot’s latest comes about 30 seconds into the album’s title track and opener, “Solaranus” (the album is technically called Solar Anus, but close enough). The song starts out with a sole Kylesa-esque riff with occasional drum accents, all fuzzed out and reliably solid. But then the band kicks in, and they follow along, with one noticeable exception: the focal point of the riff has gone from a nice, reliable stoner foundation to an offputting brown note, dipping slightly lower than what the song had set you up to expect. And at that moment, you’re torn: is the riff showing too much of its hand in trying to be revolting, or is it a brilliant subversion of expectations? It depends on your head space when you approach it at first, but then it coalesces. Like all good noise rock, it’s full of a sense of danger that things are going to go full-on off the rails and be impossible to listen to. It’s a struggle between what’s palatable and what’s offensive, and what percentage of one can coexist with the other. In the case of “Solaranus,” it leans harder toward the latter as the song goes on. But the track is the longest on the album, more than twice as long as most of the others. It sets a killer tone for the rest of the record, which seems catchy from there. Solar Anus will be an endurance test for some, but for lovers of abrasion, it’s a personalized Valentine. Granted, that Valentine probably has a picture of a woman shitting on some amputee’s chest, but affection’s affection.

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Anyone who was unfortunate enough to have well-meaning-yet-clueless relatives knows the feeling of disappointment. After weeks of anticipation, staring at the shiny boxes under the Christmas tree and wondering what’s inside, you eagerly tear open your presents. What lies inside? GI Joes? Transformers?? A BB gun? A new Nintendo?!? Mind racing and adrenaline pumping, you open the first box and are brutally assaulted by reality: your hippie uncle got you some handmade, wooden train from his recent trip to Chile. And it only gets worse — grandma gave you a subscription to Highlights, and mom got you enough socks and underwear to last you through high school. Dejected, you retreat to your bedroom and pout while thinking about all the awesome presents the other kids must have gotten.

This is the same feeling I got all too often as a young metal fan in the late 80s/early 90s. Back then, without the internet, finding new bands was a real crapshoot — you really never knew what you were in for when you bought a new record unless you manged to catch them on Headbanger’s Ball. You did the best you could with what you had, but it wasn’t much to go on. Time and time again I was tricked by a cool logo, sweet cover art, or a name that sounded brutal — what I thought was going to be ass-ripping thrash or hardcore turned out to be dreadful hard rock, third-rate speed metal, or limp-wristed art rock. I tried so hard to be positive and enjoy the album that I had squandered my $8 on, but I just couldn’t do it.

In no particular order, here are a few of the dozens upon dozens of bands who I tried to like, but simply could not. What are yours??

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Neurosis are one of the best metal bands around much in the same way David Lynch is one of the best directors in American cinema: the vast, vast majority of people who encounter his movies, at best, don’t get the big deal. Neurosis aren’t a band that are easy to get into: they don’t have brews-and-BBQ-ready riffs, they’re steeped in noise and occasionally apocalyptic folk, and their M.O. for song lengths is looong. But like all difficult art, if they get their hooks in you, you’re a fan for life. Neurosis are known for harnessing soul-shaking power and crafting it into near-perfect (or, in some case, plain ol’ perfect) albums and increasingly rare-yet-transformative live appearances; their slavishly devoted fan base (which, if you’re remarkably simple and haven’t noticed, this writer is certainly among them) will tell you we’re lucky to exist in a time in which they’re still active and present. Neurot Records (helmed by the band themselves) have two new releases that further illustrate that point: yet another reissue of their classic Enemy of the Sun album and Live at Roadburn 2007, a solid capturing of their headlining set at their curated edition of the eponymous festival. Though neither are particularly essential (unless you haven’t heard Enemy of the Sun yet), they’re still a meaty bone thrown to fans waiting three years for a follow-up to Given to the Rising, surely enough to gnaw on in the meantime.

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Minimalism and rock do not necessarily go together. But as any pregnant lady can tell you, odd cravings can lead to some really satisfying flavor sensations. With that in mind, I’m pleased to introduce My Disco.

Like Shellac if envisioned by monks instead of grizzled music business vets, this guitar-bass-drums trio embodies asceticism in their angular music. Tracks off last year’s Paradise (produced by Steve Albini) work so damn well because they’re so damn spare. No elaborate rhythms, no complex basslines, and no fucking solos! Instead, My Disco produce appreciate the silences and gaps that can come from a more selective and, yes, minimal approach to music composition. In the hands of less skilled musicians, this kind of shit would fall flat on its face, but it undeniably works for these Aussies. You can see for yourself when My Disco joins noise rockers Young Widows on a string of North American tourdates.

-GS

[Gary Suarez is more stardog champion than slumdog millionaire. He also writes for Brainwashed and sporadically manages the consistently off-topic No Yoko No.]

OK, maybe our resident serial killer expert Corey Mitchell and I are the only ones who’ll be excited about this, but Bodychoke’s final album will be reissued by Relapse early next year. Bodychoke was the unconventional noise rock project helmed by Kevin Tomkins, who made his bones in pioneering industrial music projects Whitehouse and Sutcliffe Jugend, and longtime collaborator Paul Taylor. Currently out of print, Cold River Songs was the only self-produced effort from this misanthropic clan of bloodthirsty, sadosexual sophisticates, though their charmingly titled prior album Five Prostitutes was helmed by the great Steve Albini. Due out in February, the reissue will include lyrics in the packaging, which anyone familiar with Tomkins’ body of work knows are truly vicious. A real treat for the true crime loving metalhead loner!

-GS

[Gary Suarez subsists on a strict diet of beignets and whiskey. He also writes for Brainwashed and often manages the consistently off-topic No Yoko No.]