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Thursday, November 26, 2009

Remnants: The Untold Story of Heavy Metal Music

There’s a lot of talk out there about movies that have been made, but I’d like to spend a little time talking about one that should be. It’s a documentary about heavy metal.

What’s that you say? There are plenty of documentaries about heavy metal, not to mention one or two notable mockumentaries on the subject? Yes, yes, I know. But I’m not pining for another film that proves the ignorance and mediocrity of ninety percent of the metal scene. Regrettably, that’s been well established. It’s a reality worth pondering, but enough is enough. What about the truly gifted practitioners who plod through the years touring and recording, serving up highly crafted songs to the delight of their fans? It is to them that our hypothetical documentary must be devoted.

Heavy metal is its own floating island in the restless sea of popular music. Punk, hip-hop, and bluegrass you might expect to hear from time to time on NPR. Somehow even the most anti-establishment music genres have found a scintilla of respectability. All of them, that is, except for heavy metal.

There are reference points throughout rock history, of course. I’m no rock historian and I recognize this. So let’s roll film on our documentary with an introductory photo montage of some of heavy metal’s most influential ancestors. For guitarists we’re talking about people like Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page, and Jeff Beck. Singers might include Eric Bourdon, Marc Bolan, Dickie Peterson, Joe Cocker, and Robert Plant. Bassists and drummers might come from even farther afield. But goddamn it, when the last of the opening credits scrolls by, it’s time to set the record straight about the inestimable contributions of some of the key players from about 1980 onward. That’s where the untold story lives.

I’ve always looked at the metal movement as stemming from two major branches, one leading from Led Zeppelin, the other from Black Sabbath. This is probably overly simplistic, but my only point is that our documentary would have to dip its bucket into both tributaries. I can’t think of a better place to start than Van Halen, arguably descendants along the Zeppelin line. Eddie Van Halen has worked night and day in recent years to erase all memory of his former greatness, but even he is powerless to do so (proving once and for all that yes, God can in fact create a rock so heavy that he himself cannot lift it). I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: The ten best rock guitar solos of all time were recorded by this innovative musician, and the reach of his influence on young players has no end in sight. True, his achievements haven’t exactly been overlooked by the music world, but the banner must continue to fly until he shares the same stage in history as the greats already shown during our opening credits. And besides, we’re only getting this thing cranked up. Less decorated soldiers in the metal army will earn their stripes as the film grinds forward.

Next up, King’s X. I’m not convinced there’s a hard rocking outfit in the world that has delivered as many excellent songs as this Texas trio, not to mention the restraint with which they’re able to harness their prodigious musical talents. Humanity needs to be made aware of their efforts. Their cult status is impressive but unfair. They ought to be as big as the Beatles, and that comparison is more apt than it may appear at first blush.

While we’re at this, let’s jump across to the darker side of the spectrum and trace Metallica and Iron Maiden’s influence on the thrash and death metal sub-genres, and their variant branches. Coroner would be an obvious choice here. So would Voivod. You won’t hear mention of either band on hard rock radio, yet no one can match the power and intricacy of the former or the frantic fusion of the latter. In fact, I wonder if there’d be a Tool without a Coroner and a Voivod. My guess is no. Coroner's lyrics alone make the band worth considering. English may have been drummer Mark Edelmann’s second language, but he didn’t let that stop him from penning some of the most memorable lyrics of a generation of death metal. You can have your overrated Jim Morrison doggerel. I’ll take the words of Coroner any day.

In the interest of controversy let’s include a segment on Celtic Frost as well. Not generally admired for their finely honed musicianship, Frost have nonetheless made some significant contributions to death metal. One of the best examples is their cover of Wall of Voodoo’s “Mexican Radio.” Their arrangement cleverly introduces a counterpoint to the original melody while retaining the original by handing a slight variation of it to the rhythm guitar. It’s incredibly effective and breathes real life into the song. The whole Into the Pandemonium record is just great listening anyway, and having Les Edwards’ Tomb World painting featured inside the album cover is just one more reason to sing the praises of Frost.

Then of course there’s the guitar hero tradition, best exemplified by speedsters like Yngwie Malmsteen, Steve Vai, and Jason Becker in the 1980s. Of course many others have followed since. This new breed of guitarist was not only fast as greased lightning where fretwork was concerned, but they brought a classical awareness to the genre that can be traced back even farther to Richie Blackmore and his ilk. Corruptions like Dream Theater were an inevitable side effect of the so-called neo-classical trend, and our documentary might spend a moment or two on music I’m not particularly fond of (in the case of Dream Theater, too much math, not enough heart), but by and large this film is my imaginary figment, so I’m calling the shots, dig?

Now, did I mention Extreme? I know it’s fashionable in some circles to dismiss this group as cotton candy, but then, so are drug abuse and gang violence. That doesn’t make them right. The original lineup of this funk metal syndicate is responsible for some of the most jaw-dropping confections of the late ’80s and early ’90s. There’s simply no pretending that Nuno Bettencourt and the boys aren’t some of the worthiest inheritors of the Van Halen tradition to come down the line.

I could go on to talk a little bit about some of the newer musical groundbreakers, like Extol and Dillinger Escape Plan, or I could reveal my ignorance about even newer groups, but I trust you get my drift by now. The metal army marches on. I've left out a lot of names here, and so will our documentary. Our net for this picture has been cast wide across the sometimes mystifying world of heavy metal music, but the focus remains on the music. That's bound to limit our coverage, both because quality is hard to find and because it's ultimately in the ear of the beholder. Still, we’re panning for the good stuff and will not settle for hacks and wannabes. There are shadows to be illuminated, people. Myths to be shattered. Minds to be expanded. Our work is cut out for us.

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Wednesday, November 11, 2009

The Threat that Hides

I'm awakened again by the clacking of teeth—
So near, I wonder for a moment if they're inside my head,
Chewing at my brain.

I want it to be the zealous work of a loyal mutt,
In need of a midnight piss,
But I own no pets.

I yearn to open my eyes,
But what I see with them closed is bad enough.
Will the killing bite come this time?
 
A hitch and a wheeze:
Hot, noisome breath mantles my face.
Then, nothing ...
 
Followed by scuttling beneath the bed,
And the sound of an ancient hatch swinging shut
On tired hinges.
 
I'm safe once more,
But I've lost my understanding of the world,
Such as it was.
 
All is unknown to me now.
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Beheld

I carry the flame of her memory in my palm
And it flickers in the winds of my chagrin.
Just when it appears to have blinked out completely
The fire is resurrected by a retreating gust.

Never is she gone from me.
Never can I flee.
Can it be without reason
That my hand was set ablaze by her touch?

If emptiness and longing are the flame's only lasting legacy,
Void me of all light and heat.
Leave me instead in the cold and the dark,
Alone with my nightmares.

Never let me know another burning presence.
Never let me imagine what I cannot have.
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Gracie

My dog spans the sofa.
Her hind leg twitches,
And soft grunts dribble out of her,
Mere echoes of the barking she thinks she's doing.

Does a memory of me cause her tail to flick?
Or does she only pine for squirrels
And cats
And wide open fields?
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