Metallica - Death Magnetic (2008)

Now that I've officially gotten Metallica's three abominations under my belt, let's turn to Death Magnetic, their newest release and definitely best since the Black Album. First, the bad: the album and songs are a bit formulaic; this is partly due to Metallica pillaging their past forays for inspiration, so in a way, they can't be blamed. Or can they? Part of the problem I had when listening was the occasional over-aping of past material. Sure, it may be fine for Metallica to loot Metallica, but when is enough enough? "The Day That Never Comes" is awful, not least for it sounding like "Unforgiven," then "Orion," then "One" -- all in the same song. In fact, why does it sound more like "Unforgiven III" than the actual song on the album, also named "Unforgiven III?" Both are awful and reminiscent more of their Load-era gobbidge than the old stuff they try to imitate. I also think "Suicide & Redemption" is a sludgy, boozy drunken mess; it's a ten minute instrumental, possibly intended in a similar vein as "Call Of Ktulu" or "Orion," but it's a long aimless wankfest. Speaking of wankfest, Kirk Hammett is all over the place. I have a feeling people will love the three solos he plays in almost every song, but most of them are caroused noodling, completely jarring to the music being played, and seemingly intentionally inserted for the sake of being able to be inserted -- that and some of them you can hear coming before they actually come. I have this cassette tape of me playing the guitar as an ambitious 13-year old musical prodigy (har har har!); on it, you can hear me shredding a million arpeggiated notes in a millisecond -- and it's complete crap. Thanks, Kirk. I now feel like I could've recorded a metal album and been like you.

That said, the good: some of the solos actually work quite well (the bad ones are just indelibly bad), as do the plenitude of riffs. James Hetfield used to eat riffs for breakfast; he returns to do just that here. In some instances, riffs change as quickly as they can be digested and the intent for most of the album seemed to be: faster faster faster. For that, I tip my hat to "That Was Just Your Life," "All Nightmare Long" and "My Apocalypse" (the requisite "Damage Inc. or "Metal Militia" or "Dyer's Eve" of the album). "End Of The Line" and "Broken, Beat And Scarred" are also pretty good. Hmm, what else? Robert Trujillo is pretty non-existent; a touch of bass here and there, but it's mostly the Hetfield show. It's a less-than-average album, for sure, but in light of recent history -- say the last however many dismal years -- it's a welcome comeback, even if I expect nothing better from them ever again, since it's painfully obvious they just don't have it anymore and if they weren't appropriating from themselves, they probably would've fared worse. The intent seems genuine and earnest, but the fact is, these guys aren't angry anymore, even if they tried to master the puppets again. C-

Shadows Fall - The War Within (2004)

I kinda sorta maybe like these guys -- my most precise opening yet, eh? The Art Of Balance is a much better album methinks, but my favorite two songs are on this one. Here, I must admit, I am honestly disappointed with almost everything but the album's bookends. "Enlightened By The Cold" leaves me positively confused -- was that Joey Belladona during the chorus? Or just an earnest impression? Oh, wait, there it is in "Ghost Of Past Failures" again. Ok, if this is a long-lost Anthrax album, it's much too fucking slow. "Inspiration On Demand" doesn't make me feel any better; is Brian Fair trying to sing? Switching from his throaty growls to his (cough cough) mellifluous bird chirps when he wants to whine reminds me of ... emo -- (пиво пожалуйста!) -- which is to say: plaintive shit smears, poorly applied lip gloss, tortellini haircuts -- in short, glam rock poseurs, but without panache.

All isn't a complete loss, though. The album's bookends, for me, are where I become a repeat customer. The opening track, "The Light That Blinds"," is a nice distillation of nasty thrash and beautiful melodicism -- if this song could be replicated musically for the entirety of an album -- any album -- these guys could be the new kings of metal. Oh, and this brief solo is fucking sweet.

"Those Who Cannot Speak" is an amazing end to an otherwise forgettable album; I simply love the opening acoustic passages and how the riffs come pounding down. "The Power Of I And I," "Eternity Is Within" and "Stillness" are also decent heavy numbers. All in all, it's a decent thrash album that you will enjoy if you listen to it, but won't be able to recall anything afterwards (except the bookends), and will occasionally skip a few because you hate whiny suckass bitches. C-

Lenny Kravitz - It Is Time For A Love Revolution (2008)

Lenny Kravitz is an interesting musician: despite the stabbings he's received throughout the years as being a retro-rock connoisseur incapable of anything original, he's still around. This is partly because, well, his musical template is classic rock and funk; and therefore if he sounds remotely close -- even sometimes -- to the wonderful period during the 70s he seamlessly emulates, he's placed himself above the moribund music we already suffer through. But that's the rub: he's good enough to stick around but not enough to be accepted; like the White Stripes, he reminds you of the joys of the original without entirely sounding like them, but take away this musical crutch, and he can't even break his fall with his arms. We admire him (for his good taste in past music), yet we revile him for doing nothing more than repeating it. Interestingly enough, he does have his own guitar tone; there is a definite strangeness in being able to know the difference between a Zeppelin-like riff played by no one in particular and a Zeppelin-like riff that is played by Lenny Kravitz. He's made an art form of sounding like himself sounding like others -- that's why he's still around, and why shite bands like Blink 1-82, Creed, et al, are not.

Okay, the album: this is one of many albums that I would classify as being of the 'taking-a-shit' variety, which is to say, it takes a shit roughly halfway through, transforming into a smatter of coagulated fester smitten in a public toilet bowl, never quite clean because of constant use. The lyrics are shallow, the music is blah and it's pretty awful. The first half, however, is pure indulgence. Like what I've said of Blur, Lenny wears his influences on his sleeve: Zeppelin, Grand Funk, Sly Stone, the Rolling Stones, Prince, etc. It's highly entertaining stuff, makes you bob your head up and down to his nifty rhythms and causes you to smile that someone still manages to play guitar solos. But don't mix this up with your old Floyd records. It's just a re-creation tie-dye tapestry, not the real thing. C-

Pink Floyd - The Division Bell (1994)

Just when you thought Momentary was a one-off we've-got-to-do-something-without-Roger album, nearly seven years later our fading heroes produce this, The Division Bell. Sure, it's wicked tasty when compared to Momentary -- but, too little, too late. The glimmers of old Floyd appear primarily on the last five tracks (the only ones I will admit to liking) and mostly because of Gilmour's vocals and guitar. But the child is grown, the dream is gone. The band has seen better days. The house is gone and fade away. Fortunately, everything post-Wall doesn't damage anything for me. These guys were amazing, and are every time I listen to them. And tell me, about whom was Gilmour alluding to when he sings, "So I open my door to my enemies / And ask could we wipe the slate clean / But they tell me to please go and fuck myself / You know, you just can't win." C-

Derek And The Dominos - Layla And Other Assorted Love Songs (1970)

I'm going to indulge a bit here and act on what lingering loathing I've lovingly lathered over the past few days regarding Mssr. Eric Clapton in the comments section and have decided to put, as Bob would say, the sacred cow on the chopping block for slaughter. I almost chose the overrated Wheels Of Fire, but decided this one would suffice. This is not to say that I'm going to spend the next few lines demoralizing Clapton, but his unwelcome and mediocre spirit will be criticized, for sure. It's not that mediocrity is necessarily a terrible thing, but when such mediocrity is so highly praised, that is when I become particularly agitated, hence his deserved exclusion off my top 50 list, and perhaps even 100, for that matter.

With that, let's get on with the story of Eric's -- er, Derek's -- manic love-fest of an album. It starts off well enough with "I Looked Away," the tender "Bell Bottom Blues" and the rollicking "Keep On Growing" and then, no matter how good Duane Allman's licks or presence, the album suddenly sucks. "Nobody Knows When You're Down And Out" is muddled bluesy dreck; "Anyday," featuring otherwise tasty Duane Allman slide, is pretty much drivel otherwise. This rather lifeless torpor continues on for the entirety of the album, to include the horrible "Have You Ever Loved A Woman" and the most tepid and uninspiring cover of Hendrix's "Little Wing". Two notable exceptions are the ferocious "Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad?" and, of course, "Layla," which I love oh so dearly. Of course, such a heap of praise is not without explanation. See, that opening guitar line -- that was not only played by Duane Allman, but was created by him as well; and those bird-like tones produced during the piano coda are his as well. In fact, I would be positively frightened to hear not only that song, but this entire album as well had he had not appeared on it. I suppose, perhaps, this is Clapton's true genius: surrounding himself with far better talent to substitute for his own shortcomings and riding their coattails. Hence, his additional lack of kudos from me for his time during Cream, Blind Faith and The Yardbirds, although as far as praise is concerned, this is Clapton's best work -- whatever that means. Regardless, it is what is. Thank you, Duane. Screw you, Eric. And I promise to be nice for the next few. C-

Down II - A Bustle In Your Hedgerow (2002)

What is there to really say of this album? Disappointment, my brothers and sisters; prepare for disappointment. The chunky riffage of "Lysergik Funeral Procession" opens it all up, as if a kind of continuance of NOLA, but that's about where the fun ends, because the album then proceeds to tank, precipitously -- a helluva NOLA letdown, for sure. A bustle in your hedgerow this effort is not; more like a thimble in a haystack. Phil's voice is, understandably but mournfully, wearied and lacking much of his famous punch. At 15 songs, and one hour in length, the album isn't exactly a sprawling epic, but it sure feels like it; the cheeky pretensions of the title and the torpor of the music contribute to this feeling, I suppose. "Landing On The Mountains Of Meggido," the song that closes it all, is by far the best track on the album, and perhaps one of Down's best songs. Although very Zeppish, this plaintive acoustic song bristles with an angry, albeit subdued and genuine sadness. When Phil tiredly sings, "this is what wars are made of," you can hear the resignation. Other pretty good tracks: "Ghosts In The Mississippi," "Beautifully Depressed" and "Seed." Buyer beware: "Flambeaux's Jamming With St. Aug" and "Doobinterlude" are pointless filler. "Where I'm Going" answers itself musically: nowhere -- worst track, methinks. Listen to NOLA and the new album, not this mess.
C-

Ween - Pure Guava (1992)

I had never heard of Ween except for the insistent and effuse praise by a certain gentleman I know well named Cianan who, incidentally, also introduced me to Captain Beefheart, to which I owe him my most soiled diapers. Aside from some absolute brilliance, these guys are way out there. If Proteus were a musician, this would be his music: slippery, ever-changing and containing elements from every crook and cave this side of the nearest cepheid variable. Pure Guava, in this sense, is a tightly wound musical mess, gushing with pink ooze and variance of style. Understandably, some of it is not to my taste -- do you put sugar on your pizza? -- but it works for them.

I'd like to add first that "Pumpin' 4 The Man" is the most wonderful anti-ode to shitty employment ever; it's short, brutal and features a wallop of popping drums and bass.

"Push Th' The Little Daisies" is also a high-saccharine affair and showcases Dean's strangely perfect guitar riffs. "Little Birdy" is what I would call a drugged little ditty with interesting guitar warbling and warped vocals (much like the rest of the record, which is lacking in vocals without effects). "The Stallion, Pt. 3," "Big Jilm," "I Saw Gener Cryin' In His Sleep" -- all solid tracks.

Yet this is not a five-star review by any measure of my demented yardstick. "Tender Situation," "Sarah," and "I Play It Off Legit" are rather lacking in ooomph; frat-boy titled songs like "Touch My Tooter," "Flies On My Dick," "Hey Fat Boy (Asshole)" and "Poop Ship Destroyer" are not only silly titles, they're even stupider songs. Pure Guava, like Ween themselves, is like a buffett; and tell me, who likes to eat everything at a buffett? C-

Pearl Jam - Yield (1998)

Kevin Smith is brilliant. Well, sometimes. But you realize it when he makes you like Ben Affleck -- even if for a second. I know, I know. But this line out of Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back is so appropriate to this post, it simply must be repeated: "Well, look at these morose motherfuckers right here. Looks like somebody shit in their cereal...BONG." That line unequivocally summarizes Pearl Jam -- except there's no BONG. With the exception of Ten, every successive album is a tepid uninspired mess, a glow here, an ember there, and then, absolute dreck. Yield is no different, and about the only reason I chose to review this one over their other efforts is because all shit smells the same in a cesspool.

Starting with the best first is probably the wisest course because you may not get to the end of this review. Therefore, the album opener, "Brain Of J" is a great song. Such momentum, though, is squandered, as the album becomes this torpid lull of predictable so-so rock 'n' roll pudding. Despite "In Hiding" and "MFC" -- decent songs themselves -- the album embodies absolute worthlessness. "Pilate" is fundamentally the reason every human being alive -- of talent or not -- should learn to play any instrument simply to overshadow the ick that is this song. It's just pure drivel -- likewise, take your pain meds after "All Those Yesterdays" and "." and "Faithfull" and "Low Light" and "No Way." Interestingly enough, "Given To Fly" and "Do The Evolution" are actually better songs live than on the studio recording here, but these aren't those versions, so why I'm trying to be polite is, well, I just don't know. I just wish Eddie Vedder would decide whether he's Jim Morrison, Roger Daltrey or Neil Young. A very generous C-.