Here's the album in which I first discovered The Smiths, but not in the way in which you think.
It was from a review in Rolling Stone magazine-back when things like print music magazines mattered, and when reviews could expose a band to a wider audience. As much as I hate to admit it, Rolling Stone magazine prompted me to explore new music unseen, and the results were rather mixed, even though the intentions were good.
I didn't buy The Smiths debut from that review.
And none of the words had any impact on that decision.
In fact, I can't even remember if the review was positive or negative, but I'd venture a guess that the folks at Rolling Stone have re-written their own history enough times to call the Mancunians' debut a "landmark" and to heap plenty of 20/20 praise on its arrival, even if their first glance was indifferent.
What struck me was the artwork-this was during a period when Rolling Stone's reviews all featured the record artwork-and how it was different that any other album cover at the time. It was clear that this band paid careful consideration to their image, or at least the sleeve in which it came in. It looked edgy, mysterious and somewhat iconic. Even the font looked clean.
It also looked gay. And to a young man growing up in the Midwest, "looking" gay was something that young boys were instructed-either directly or indirectly-not to appear. These were the instructions of the same dude who also advised against wearing pink or getting only your left ear pierced, because an earring in the right ear meant you were gay.
Both ears? You were bi.
All of this hopefully sounds ridiculous to anyone now, but ask any Midwestern man over 40 and I'm positive that you will hear similar nonsense.
I would like to think that The Smiths are somehow responsible for the cultural shift that made it possible for young men to not have to worry about such things, because to not purchase a record simply because the cover might suggest that you were somehow a homosexual is entirely the wrong reason for not buying it.
At the same time, had I actually been brave enough to purchase The Smiths, there is a distinct possibility that I would not have re-examined the band until much later than I actually did. That's because The Smiths' debut is not the infectious and Earth shattering record I needed to hear in order to begin to not give a shit what other people thought about the fucking cover.
But having the luxury to look back upon the band's debut after the fact provides its glaring deficiency: the horribly dated mix. The band could be a tightly wound monster, but The Smiths sounds like it was merely pieced together by a few dedicated musicians, a meticulously-inclined producer and an unlimited amount of studio time to make it all stick.
The drums sound thin and Morrissey hasn't quite found his fey swagger, coming across as the bummed out bastard who just happened to land the gig of vocalist because he was the only dude that brought lyrics to rehearsal. Guitarist Johnny Marr and bassist Andy Rourke give spirited performances, but when a pair of tunes feature Paul Carrack, you tend to wonder what other musicians the producer might have been able to call up after a full evening of studio tracking.
The sequencing is a complete downer too, even by Smiths standards. Nearly every song could be the soundtrack to a child abuse nightmare, and even though the band is somewhat famous for being morose, it can be a fairly grim process getting though The Smiths without wanting some sunlight or a mindless cartoon after a complete listen.
The American issue squeezed in the delightful "This Charming Man" single at the end of side one to brighten things up, but its placement on the debut is made redundant with the much-better Hatful Of Hollow compilation, and is apparently becoming phased out of future issues of The Smiths.
True fans are going to (like me) get here eventually and I must acknowledge that some of the themes and arrangements within The Smiths will probably be close to the hearts of the fans that began here. There is no doubting this record's ultimate influence, but for me the debut sounds like a band developing not only its footing, but also their own authority. They surely must have known that they sounded much better than what producer John Porter presented on this record, as every record the band self-produced afterwards reflects some superior musicianship and real prowess compare to the tracks found here.
What works best is the lyrics, a point that Morrissey no doubt realizes and can use as an example whenever he attempts to diminish the roles of his other bandmates. The irony of The Smiths failure is how it doesn't represent the entire band's strengths, and probably would have rendered them an eccentric cult curio if they hadn't pressed on to do much greater things in an unbelieveably short amount of time.
It's not the record that you should start with, but by discovering the band through other albums, you'll soon end up here anyway.
Identified as one of the loudest albums in rock history, but
even that has an asterisk. The story goes that during the recording of Outsideinside, Blue Cheer was kicked out
of the studio for being too loud. So, the band decided to record the remaining
material on Pier 57 in New York, and even then, ships miles away could hear the
racket.
Of course, none of this eardrum breaking sonic overdose is
that prevalent on Outsideinside. What
remains is a thick, viscous sludge.
Fans of garage rock, early heavy metal, psychedelic
freakouts and headache-inducing stereo panning will be pleased with the mucky
results. It is 36 minutes of lysergic bliss, bashed out by a trio of grubby
bikers who asked members of the Hells Angels to coordinate the art direction.
The resulting package is an enjoyable time capsule in which Dickie Peterson is
perched on a mushroom with drummer Paul Whaley and guitarist Leigh Stephens
also sporting wide smiles as 5 bikers bring weed to the power trio.
The novelty of the packaging, the recording sessions and the
band’s unhinged personalities all pale when those first moments of fuzz hit. Outsideinside was the second album from
Blue Cheer in 1968 and its predecessor Vincebus
Eruptum is the release that tends to get higher recognition.
By record number two, Blue Cheer had undoubtedly logged a
few highway miles and they sound a bit tighter on the final results. But I’ll
be damned if I can hear any real intricate detail in this sludgefeast, and
there are still plenty of moments where the band occasionally falls off the
rails, giving the entire thing a sense of legitimacy.
Which is just another way of saying “It’s awesome.” With
covers of The Stones “Satisfaction” and Albert Kings “The Hunter” put into the
line-up as some kind of reference point-but it hardly matters: You can hear the
tape catching speed at the beginning of “Satisfaction” while “The Hunter”
starts of fairly innocuous before slipping into another acid casualty by the
guitar solo.
How this record ever got made it a testament to the free
spirit of the record industry at that time, where even a power trio of limited
competencies with loud amplifiers could get signed.The end result is a wonderful time capsule, a
soundtrack to your scrambled eggs hangover and a perfect reminder that rock and
roll music was once a dangerous place, performed at dangerous volumes and
fueled by dangerous substances.
Being a fan of The Police back in the day - particularly the
driving “Demolition Man” from Ghosts In The Machine - I was not too keen on hearing an androgynous Jamaican
woman named Grace Jones unleash her own version of the song In fact, Jones was
so completely off of my radar during the time of her original releases that I
only remember her stunning look and not a note of her music, except that lone
Police cover.
A reissue reminder of Nightclubbing
prompted a new consideration-this time where I followed the album as it should
have been absorbed originally. From it, I learned that Jones’ version of “Demolition
Man” predates The Police’s version-so it really isn’t fair to claim that
Jones’ cover is somehow sacrilegious to the original, since it is the
original.
And any mention of her look failed to consider just how
artistically creative it really was. The androgyny, the sharp angles of her
clothing and hair, all of these divisive visuals now appear as groundbreaking,
breaking new ground for other artists that also use provocative appearances to
get noticed.
But back then, there was nobody like Grace Jones, and I
suppose you could still say the same thing today. What I failed to learn then is
the backstory to her career. Her musical career came with some pretty intense
personal sacrifices, specifically how her controversial looks created friction
with her father, who was attempting to become a church bishop. He was under the
impression that his religious desire was becoming by his daughter’s look and
musical content. The decision to distance himself from his daughter’s fame
meant that he also would need to distance himself from her. While most parents
would be proud at their kid’s success, Grace would be forced to appreciate her
own independently.
Even the music itself was becoming more challenging. Jones
had originally transitioned from a successful modeling career to music by means
of disco. By the late 70’s, she had abandoned the genre that gave her a certain
amount of success and began incorporating different styles of music into her
own repertoire as well as toying with the idea of what women should look like.
To facilitate this, Jones traveled back to her native
Jamaica and enlisted the help of Sly & Robbie to initiate her “Compass
Point Trilogy,” of which, Nightclubbing comes
in as the second installment. It is her most well-known work and it is more
influential than originally thought.
The Compass Point Allstars go beyond the early 80’s reggae
vibe that they had already consistently mastered by this point. Instead, they bring
genres like disco, electronica, new wave into their island grooves, leaving
Jones to use every song as a new role with the only thread becoming Nightclubbing’s danceability.
The deluxe edition expands Nightclubbing into two discs, but it’s the original one that you’ll
want to focus on. Disc two is filled with redundant extended versions that
offer little over the original album versions, with the exception of two
unreleased tracks “If You Want To Be My Lover” and a great cover of Gary Numan’s
“Me! I Disconnect From You” which suggest that Jones’ adherence to reinterpreting
cover songs is a very worthwhile strategy, as was her unconventional
appearance.
Ultimately, it’s what is found inside the packaging that
reaffirms Jones’ musical output: challenging, endearing and influential.
Ironically, the same qualities that are found on her album covers.
If the chief complaint against L.A. Woman was its lazy interpretation, then the rehearsals leading up to that recording session can only be described as a feast of stoned immaculate friends.
The Workshop Sessions find The Doors in a particularly amiable mood, in a recording that was never intended on seeing the light of day. I suppose, in that respect, we can't complain too much about how sloppy John Densmore's drumming is, or how Robby Krieger plays with such half-assed concentration that he completely stops playing in some areas. Even Jimbo remained seating during some of these takes, which may or may not be indicative of whatever role he might have been pondering at this point in the Doors career.
To be honest, The Workshop Sessions sound more like an opportunity for session bassist Jerry Scheff to learn the material-and most of the evidence presented here demonstrates that the tunes don't present him with any trouble whatsoever.
Even Ray Manzarek is in fine form, dutifully making sure the songs remain on a start/stop schedule and staying close to the patterns that everyone is by now familiar with from the final product of L.A. Woman.
The Workshop Sessions may signal that there is very little left in the band's archives to milk their posthumous output, but its quality is enough to capture the curiosity of their loyal fans-and for them, this release will be warmly received.
Firstly, the sound quality is tremendous. Those flubs and studio banter are crisp and full of fidelity. You're a fly on the wall to their inner sanctum-and there were enough of those moments for me to appreciate this release.
The only other item that will sway Doors fans is the unreleased track "She Smells So Nice/Rock Me" which is not so much a lost song as a pretty simple blues jam who's only claim to fame is the ad-libbing that Morrison does at the end, marking the first appearance of the "Mr. Mojo Risin'" line into the rock and roll lexicon.
It's more of a spontaneous utterance rather than a "Eureka!" epiphany, and the fact that it comes well after the jam has run its course signals that "She Smells So Nice/Rock Me" was included with this release solely on the novelty of capturing one of the most well-known lines in rock history rather than providing us with a lost gem.
The Workshop Sessions qualifies as being both the cash-grab that cynics will label it as while being an indispensable recording for serious Doors fans who would have purchased any bit of material laid in front of them. With the packaging and source material as good as it is on this release, The Workshop Sessions makes it a worthy issue but hardly one that will appeal to anyone beyond the already devoted.
To the Doors faithful, L.A. Woman was a continuation of the band's peak moments, a picture of the white bread blues the would carry the band through the 70's, with short bursts of jazzy blends and the peaceful, easy feelings that would saturate the scene for the rest of the decade.
Of course, the Doors faithful could also be incredibly wrong, and the mantra "take it easy" could also be seen as "spoiled laziness" among other observers, and The Doors certainly had a track record of taking the path of least resistance.
The reality of L.A. Woman is somewhere in the middle. There are moments of true brilliance, mostly contained within the epic sprawl of "Riders On The Storm" and the title track, both lengthy offerings in the band's penchant for drawn out dramas. The difference being that both of the tracks that ended up closing out sides one and two on the original release sounded nothing like their track record of over-seriousness, where charming film school boys could get away with a few moments of poetry recall and pouty snapshots.
For L.A. Woman, those boys were fat and fuzzy, wallowing in the notion of new directions and the new found grittiness that the Sunset Strip had gone from seedy to scary ("Motel, money, murder, madness").
By the time they called up L.A. notable Bruce Botnick, who took over after original Doors producer stood firm in his belief that "Love Her Madly" was a piece of shit. Botnick simply documents the band, so the hints of new directions and the reliance on the band's continual assertions that they are perfectly capable of playing the blues are found throughout L.A. Woman.
The fact remains that The Doors weren't the best interpreters of the blues, but at least Morrison's transition into middle-age (from a physiological standpoint) makes such blurts like "Well I've been down so goddamn long" sound halfway legitimate.
I say "halfway" because Jimbo is the weakest link throughout L.A. Woman. He farts around the same four or five notes throughout the entire record and his delivery is as lazy as its ever been.
If you get the sense that Morrison wanted to be somewhere else, then you'd be pretty spot on. While the rest of the band were busy plotting their ways to remain relevant in the new decade, Jim was thinking about a new life in Paris, where he would be able to focus on his poetry without the distractions of being in a rock and roll band.
The argument could be made that L.A. Woman is less about being required listening and more about being the last recorded documents of Jim Morrison. As an admitted fan, I can't subsribe to that cynicism because the record also contains some of his best work as a lyricist.
Those aforementioned long players are classic rock radio royalty, but there's a few under appreciated gems like "The Changeling," "Cars Pass By My Window," and "The WASP (Texas Radio and the Big Beat)" finally gets a proper release for its "stoned, immaculate" imagery.
Morrison even works up a bit of mysterious foreshadowing with "Hyacinth House." He revisits a bit of Greek mythology just like he did with "The End," (even quoting from the song itself, at one point) and in the very first line of the track, Jim visualizes his final resting spot ("I see the bathroom is clear") and gives fans a clear link to where he wants to go next.
Unfortunately, that next step would lead him to leaving this world entirely, and it's not exactly clear if The Doors would have continued on with additional success in the 70's had Morrison lived, or if Jim would have found an audience receptive to his poetic proclamations.
What is clear was how L.A. Woman became linked to greatness on the sheer fact that it followed tragedy.
While it is a fine Doors release, it is nowhere near the heights of their debut or even the band's first attempt at defining lazy SoCal blues with Morrison Hotel. It may not have been the album that made Morrison's passing more tragic, it certainly contains enough moments to warrant appropriate mourning-particularly among the remaining band members who were willing to risk tainting their legacy with a pair of records after his departure.
Whatever God you subscribe to, the correct answer is that you should be worshipping King Diamond instead.
And Abigail will become your Holy Bible.
Like most non-believers, I dismissed King Diamond records when they were first issued. The falsetto was humorous. The face paint predictable. The music wasn't compelling enough for me to focus on. And on top of it all, there was a guy I used to work with at a radio station that thought the world of them.
Come to think of it, the guy kind of looked like King Diamond, minus the white face and plus a hundred pounds. His hair was receding and he wore these creepy glasses. But other than that, he kind of looked like King Diamond.
And who am I kidding? The guy was a creeper, glasses or contacts, and he said lots of inappropriate things to women.
He was in his early 30's, and what the university would call a "non-traditional" student. He wore sweatpants and track pants a lot, but he was by no means athletic. He drove a brand new Yugo (no shit) and lived in the basement of his mother's home.
If it seems like I'm painting a very unflattering portrait of this man, it's because I am. I invested some time in him and overlooked a tremendous amount of faults in order to be swindled somewhat, and I don't take too kindly to things like that.
Initially, our relationship began with metal. I was coming off of it, but this cat was in the full swing of it. In a way, his advancing age and reluctance to dismiss metal like a proper adult was inspiring. Plus, he had an incredible amount of knowledge about heavy metal and hard rock.
On top of it all, he had a great radio voice, so I put him in charge of the station's heavy metal program that we had just scheduled into the format for Saturday nights. Prior to it, we had a show called "Saturday Night Live," where we played nothing but live albums for three hours straight. I argued that nobody is going to want to listen to a bunch of live records if they're looking for a soundtrack to their Saturday night.
But metal fans? Fuck yes.
I got a kick of watching him work. He smoked cheap cigarettes, but other than that, he was a teetotaler. He'd shut off most of the lights in the studio, have his entire show booked in advance-starting with a trippy, twenty-minute long mix of creepy metal and sound effects.
It was cool.
Anyway, King Diamond, Judas Priest, Queensryche, that kind of shit, typically lead off his Saturday Night metal show.
He'd get animated with his discussion and he rightfully challenged me in my newfound contempt of the genre. He could tell I was cracking, that there was no real logic behind why I turned my back on metal.
And he was right.
Nonetheless, I wasn't ready for King Diamond, and whenever that falsetto hit, any attempt to try and sell me on his art was 86'd.
He'd break out in a Diamond falsetto at the drop of a hat, just to get my goat. It was all in fun, and he gave good conversation. As a result, I lobbied hard for the guy, got him out of the weekend schedule and put him on the sales team during the days-where he began to STEAMROLL some accounts for the station. This success suddenly put him in the position of General Manager to my roll as Program Director-thereby leapfrogging him above me in terms of hierarchy.
Not that it mattered, because we were friends.
The success went to his head, and that's when the inappropriate comments towards women started. Staff members began to avoid him, and their uncomfortableness made me uncomfortable, particularly since I had vouched for the guy, yo.
When I confronted him about it, he shut down. He isolated himself in his office. He went a little bit nutty.
After a few months of this nonsense, I backed a talented young woman to replace him, and this made more of a distance between us. We went for long period of not speaking, and then suddenly his attire began to improve. Before long, he was wearing tied. Crazy shit.
Finally, the mystery was too much for me. I asked him about the getup. He flat out told me that he had given himself "to the Lord Jesus Christ." There was a hint of craziness in his eyes, or maybe it was just that creepy big man fucking with me. I didn't know, by that point.
He told me that he had met a woman at his mother's church. She was an attractive blonde, clearly out of his league, but she was on the rebound after a breakup, and he put away his crude commentary long enough to string him along into believing he had a shot with her.
But the first thing he needed to do to win her heart was to get rid of those pesky Satanic records.
By the next week, motivated by the time when I finally broke the silent treatment and spoke to him, he called me into his office.
"Todd, would you be interested in buying some of my cd's?"
"Which ones?"
"Oh," he paused for dramatic effect. "All of them."
I asked why. He told me the story. I said, "Are you sure?" It was pathetic as all get out, but this was a time when compact discs were like little pieces of silver, and they retailed for nearly as much.
He was offering sweeeeet deals, so I drove over to his mother's house in Waterloo and he walked me down to the basement where he kept a bachelor pad motif, that is if you can ever really have a bachelor pad in the basement of your mother's house.
He lobbied hard for King Diamond, but I stuck out for a bunch of Marillion imports. This really bothered him, as he searched the synapses of his grey matter to go over the lyrical content of this British progressive rock band.
He determined that there was indeed some evil within Marillion. As well as Aerosmith's Get Yer Wings, Guns 'N Roses AppetiteFor Detruction (he wanted too much for the original vinyl pressing, so I stuck with the standard cd version) and a copy of AC/DC's Highway To Hell. There were a few other titles as well-more cds than vinyl-and I made my way home with the booty.
Not more than a month later, he was back to wearing sweatpants, bumming cigarettes, and becoming a bit more social. But it was too late. Bridges had been burned. Metal shows hosted by another (not as good) host. Advertising accounts had been left unattended, only to be hustled by other stations.
And religious girlfriends will typically put the dumpy King Diamond guy out to pasture, the moment their ex-boyfriend calls again, promising to conform.
"Hey Todd," the deflated man said before he exited my life for the final time, "Would you ever consider selling back those Marillion albums back to me?"
I'd actually be quiet interested to see how he's doing, but I needed to write out this long-winded introduction to a King Diamond review to remind myself why that would be a bad idea.
The stories intersect only on the two minor details that 1.) The radio dude kind of looked like a fat, balding version of King Diamond and 2.) he really liked King Diamond.
I'm sure he told me all about the concept of Abigail, just as I'm sure as I ridiculed it, deeming it not worthy of further consideration. But if the years have made me more nostalgic, they've also made me wiser and more tolerant of such topics as theatrics-specifically, the kind that originate in Europe.
Diamond, a Dane, lifts heavily from classical scales and operatic drama in his work. With Abigail, he creates a lyrical Victorian nightmare-its plot a detailed story arc of murder, ghosts, and some obligatory seven horsemen.
The arrangements are just as detailed, with loads of fingertapping flourishes and speedy scale runs, all punctuated by drummer Mikkey Dee's impressive kit work.
But it's Diamond's vocal strategies-alternating from a metallic bark to an operatic wail, even in mid-verse. His performance verges on pure insanity in some moments, while other times it sounds as those there may indeed be someone else behind the wheel of Diamond's twisted art.
Abigail is straight-up frightening if you let the album take hold and allow Diamond under your skin. To merely point out his attention-grabbing appearance and over-the-top vocal performance is only a lazy observation. The reality is that somebody spent an awful amount of attention to detail to come up with this nonsense, while we let bands with substantially less vision rule the roost in the American arenas.
Abigail proudly uses the metal vernacular to execute a very credible concept album that still sounds like nothing else you've ever heard. It's an album that many generations will continue to namecheck, but very few of its worshippers will be have the same royal bloodline that King Diamond has fathered with this near metal masterpiece.
There was a bit on controversy when the original line-up of KISS could not play nice and dish out a few songs together during the band's induction ceremony into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And while the decision not to perform was petty and a slap to the face of many KISS fans, Paul Stanley or Gene Simmons could have easily pointed out Peter Criss' solo albums as the reason why they would never want to perform with the Cat Man ever again.
If you're keeping track, we're only up to the third Criss solo record (the second since his departure from KISS) and already there is a huge pattern emerging. Criss had ample time-and one would assume, ample resources-to piece together a coherent ensemble of musicians and songs in his slow pace of solo releases.
Coming off two years since his abysmal Out Of Control release, Let Me Rock You finally shows Peter without any hint of his KISS past on the cover, but within the grooves it finds him to be continually haunted by his past while having no plan as to how he can escape it and no clue of how what kind of artist he'd like us to view him ass.
Instead, Criss teams up once again with producer Vini Poncia, an enabler of rock drummers (see Ringo Starr) and the man who is also complicit in reducing KISS into disco-chasing poseurs who completely disregard the impact it would have on the band's overall credibility. With his help, he demonstrated how far the band was willing to go in terms of sacrificing their wobbly credibility for the sake of a chart topper.
Poncia was Criss' suggestion, so it's not as if there isn't plenty of blame to go around here. But what's interesting is how Criss continues to use Vini even after he's logged some pretty disastrous results previously. Even stranger, Poncia was hired back by KISS for some additional shit-flinging in the studio later on during the 80's, hinting that the band's camp is pretty limited on networking and even suggests how willing they are to tolerate mediocrity over someone who would come in an challenge the band and compete with their egos.
The thing is, there should be no ego left in Criss at this point. By 1982, he was largely forgotten, except for the ever-present KISS fans, and he rewards this diminishing base with songs that alternate between half-assed hard rock songs devoid of any bite right next to Criss' and Poncia's history of Brill Building devotion. It's a mess of competing styles and lazy execution, seemingly suggesting that it is our responsibility to find the hooks within this clusterfuck and credit Criss for being more talented than he actually is.
The Cat Man only contributes to the creation of 2 of Let Me Rock You's 10 selections, and he utilizes a pair of session drummers for the proceedings too, all of which begs the question: "So what did Peter Criss actually do for this solo record?"
Evidently, not much. With no drumming, no character in his vocal abilities and no actual songs that have any sort of personal relevance, Let Me Rock You is, at best, contractual obligation, serving no purpose other than to continue his former band's penchant for socking it to the wallets of their fans and further damaging Criss' reputation by forcing these schmucks to eat his shit.
The irony of allowing the Gene Simmons song "Feels Like Heaven" into his third record is a great example of how little Criss really cares about his own quality control. He even lets Russ Ballard (again, another KISS enabler) add a few tracks to the cause and even a young kid named Steve Stevens (of Billy Idol fame) gets a shot and showing off his own shiny turds with one of the worst tracks on the release, "First Day In The Rain."
But the absolute worst is Criss cover of John Lennon's "Jealous Guy," which is riddled with an abundance of echo that try to cover up Peter's lack of vocal abilities and which are delivered at such an awkward pace that you'd be forgiven if you questioned the man's ability to keep tempo.
Let Me Rock You is Criss' third dud in a row, so pathetic that it makes Gene and Paul seem brilliant in their hiring of the tiny lapdog known as Eric Carr. It also provides some legitimacy in the notion that KISS fans will buy nearly anythingrelated to the band and how Gene and Paul may have had the right idea in keeping Criss away from the reunion proceedings over thirty years after this hairball was first released.
Released in 1982 - the same year as Kate Bush's landmark album The Dreaming was issued - Nina Hagen's Nunsexmonkrock is probably best described as the crazy German cousin of that Bush offering. It is a widely epic statement that uses genres as its personal bitch, executed by an artist with a stunning, non-traditional vocal range that bounces between terror and beauty in seconds.
And it starts that way with the very first song, "Antiworld," featuring tribal drums beats and Middle Eastern tones, all while Hagen bounces off reverberated versions of herself-each one a demonic and terrifying force. Compared to The Dreaming's opener "Sat In Your Lap," Hagen gets the nod for straight up intimidation. It's unlike anything you've ever heard, and it's the first song on the fucking album.
Cut two "Smack Jack" begins with polite early 80's rhythms and it sucks you into its familiar spaces of synthesizers and cleanly strummed guitars. All good until Hagen begins singing like an elderly Eastern European Jewish grandmother with throat cancer and possessed by the devil. She howls underneath in another overdubbed voice and by the chorus she speeds up the tempo to a gallop and begins screaming "Shoot it up, smack jack!" It's incredible drama, and even Hagen agrees with yet another voice appearing from the corners with the observation, "Junkies...are very sentimental."
"Taitschi-Tarot" channels Yoko Ono excercises quite nicely as thoughts on reincarnation. It leads into Hagen's tip-toes into the heavy metal arena with wails that are an octive higher than Maiden's Bruce Dickenson and run right next to an opera Hagen that's dubbed on top of the whole mess.
By the end of Nunsexmonkrock, we've been professionally introduced to her infant daughter Cosma Shiva Hagen, an array of childlike voices, an eerie male demon, and five minutes on the subject of UFOs ("You are not alone!! Remember, it's true!!") underneath a mechanical syncopated beat.
Yes, Nunsexmonkrock can be an overwhelming barrage of voices, noises, and genres all lobbed together in a package that questions both Hagen's sanity and her own place in the world of recorded music. Because, quite honestly, the only other person I can think of who's accomplished this level of uncompromising music has a last name of Beefheart or Ubu. Shouldn't we be placing Hagen in the same breath? Nunsexmonkrock makes a great case that we should.
"1968 is over!" Hagen reminds us, before screaming "Future is Now!" and some thirty years later, it still hasn't arrived, even when the spaceshit can be found right in the grooves of this warped masterpiece.
I discovered Ghost with the second album, Infestissumam, a regrettable decision that was made in haste and nearly derailed any additional interest in the band. Take it from me, don't make the same mistake: begin your exploration of this Swedish sextet with their debut, Opus Eponymous.
If it weren't for the band's wonderful religious imagery and their incessant praising of Satan, chances are good that I would have probably ignored Ghost completely from that moment on.
Call it the devil's work or blame it on some subconscious backwards masking, but there was something compelling to me about a band working with an image that is most associated with aggression, volume and lots of testosterone while using an abundance of pop and melody in their quest to acquire your soul for the underworld.
The dichotomy was addictive, and the more I immersed myself in discovering Ghost, the more I began to appreciate their unique mission statement.
You have to understand that I grew up during a time where any association with the devil was viewed negatively. Sure, it may have been a little titillating to have a hint of Satanic imagery to gain interest in your music, but if you had any desire of financial success or commercial intent, you had to suppress the pentagrams and play nice. And part of "playing nice" meant making sure your product was acceptable to the record buyers of Sam Walton's joint and the God-fearing local business owners who made Motley Crue turn in their barely visible pentagram for the cover of Shout At The Devil into a boring quartet of photos of the band in garish make up.
Things were so bad that even televangelist Jim Bakker's network in the early 80's gave an hour a week to a show devoted entirely to "outing" bands with Satanic references and other suggestive evil matters. When the devil material got light, they would often spend an inordinate amount of time looking for backward masking on records and other issues of concern like sex, drugs, and doing drugs that may lead to sex. If it wasn't for this show, I would have never known the message "It's fun to smoke marijuana" could be heard if you played Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust" backwards.
My point is this: had the band Ghost tried any of this Satanic jive back in the day, they would have been crucified (ha!) by religious leaders and other do-gooders who didn't see the band's over-the-top theatrics as anything but a complete threat to our nation's youth.
I mean, you've seen Paradise Lost, right?
By 2010, the world was ready for a confirmed group of devil worshippers, at least not the kind that burn historic churches and eat the brain splatter of a fellow band member's successful shotgun suicide. No, Ghost are the palatable devil worshippers, the kind where their look oozes irony and their lyrics read like make believe Latin and lazy memories of the Anglican Book of Common Prayers. Fronted by Papa Emeritus, a Pope-like religious figure in skull make-up and supported by 5 masked and anonymous musicians known as "nameless ghouls," Ghost slightly suggest some elements of evil on a visual scale, but the shear audacity of their bold religious image is hard to accept as anything more than an ironic statement of our world's curious history with Christianity and evil.
This is all confirmed within moments of Opus Eponymous, the band's debut album. They're from Sweden, which also contributes to their lack of possessing any real threat against humanity, particularly since some of the band's initial seed money came from art grants divvied out by the Swedish government .
But the real nicety is found not within the band's peripheral image or religious doctrine, it's in the music itself. While undeniably a hard rock record, Opus Eponymous noticeably light on the aggressiveness. The keyboards are mixed as high as the guitars, leaving Papa Emeritus with plenty of room to sing without the aid of any cliched metal effects whatsoever.
Opus Eponymous reveals hints of Blue Oyster Cult's more accessible moments as well as hints of late 80's prog metal favorites Voivod, if they'd pointed their songs towards the bowels of hell instead of outer space.
"Lucifer, we are here/For your praise, evil one" sings Emeritus, showing neither much conviction in the topic itself, or much concern for intimidating the listener. His ambivalence towards metal's notorious history of nutswinging machismo is unsettling at first, but positively refreshing after repeated listens. And thanks to the record's good melodic sense and abundant parade of hooks, it is quite possible that Opus will amass more listens than you probably should admit to.
The guitars are impeccably appropriate, closely following warm, retro tones and vintage appointments. Besides tactful organs which are used abundantly throughout Opus, Ghost have enough smarts to let the bassist-again, listed as another "Nameless Ghoul"- tackle the low end without letting it be ruined by endless drop-D tuning strategies. Everything is wonderfully recorded in what sounds like a very analog environment. The performances are clever and tactfully restrained, representing a very respectful tribute to the era of music that it is obviously indebted to.
The impeccable musicianship makes it so much easier to sing and quietly giggle along with Emeritus' constant praises of Satan ("The Devil's power is the greatest one"), usually bordering on Cliffs Notes edition of religious phrases ("Hear our Satan prayer/The anti-Nicene Creed") with the occasional songs about Elizabeth Bathory, a royal Hungarian 17th century serial killer ("Her acts of cruelty/Her lust for blood/Makes her one of us").
Opus Eponymous is perfectly suited for vinyl, with its tidy running time and its cheesy Gothic cover art. As with any bit of seventies worship, Opus comes complete with the album's lyrics found inside its gatefold sleeve, written in some impossible read font that's as fun as shit to follow along to while you're giving it a spin. You'll be able to confirm the lyrics online if needed, and certain sites even provide song meanings as supplied by fans and devoted listeners of the record. The site that I visited listed "It's about Satan" as the explanation of every song on Opus Eponymous, and that explanation is entirely correct.
Not that it matters. You'll be able to recite every single ridiculous chorus, particularly since they're so infectious and enormously fun to sing along with. It was suggested that I failed to notice that important element -"fun" - in my review of Ghost's second album, and I suppose that criticism is somewhat fair. But it works better here on the band's debut, because the record's focus is so tightly centered on one topic (Satan) and the band's blueprint is based entirely on spreading the message of evil in the guise of a very entertaining thirty-five minute long package.
The pop elements, the strong performances, and the band's theatrics all combine perfectly to create a refreshing and unique approach that works surprisingly well in today's ADHD culture. For me, I think that the appeal was discovering a band that focused on something beyond the walls of reality, right out of the gate to the point where I relished the idea that Ghost isn't content with modest intentions. Ghost seems to be arena-ready from the start, a goal that is practically unheard of since hair metal got buried with Nevermind's ascension over two decades ago.
Maybe it's taken that long to be ready for such blatant attempt at lofty desires. Or maybe it's taken such the dramatic appearance of a make-believe Pope and his Darth Vader masked minions to make this kind of yearning to be acceptable again.
One thing is for sure: if you sit down and put on the second side of Opus, you'll find that it's damn near perfect- that is, if that corn cob of pretentiousness that's lodged in your ass isn't too out of reach. It's a great blend of hard rock's mid-70's worship with a very legitimate attempt to recreate some similar magic for today's rock and roll virgins. Because - I don't know if you've noticed - hard rock isn't what it used to be, and its lack of eye-catching excitement probably has something to do with it no longer being the bond of our youth. And while I'm certainly not suggesting the death of hard rock/heavy metal's is here or even imminent, I do notice a decline in its influence among our youth.
To correct this, I see nothing wrong with eliciting the help of Satan himself to make sure the impressionable ears of our youth at least give hard rock a chance. Perhaps that's achieved with a band working something that's bigger in scope that what their garage or basement can provide or what their laptop can help create.
Perhaps that's achieved through the efforts of a Pope, his evil minions, and a few songs about the devil.
And that's fine by me too, because everyone knows that Hell's got all the good bands anyway.
Pretend for a moment that you're the drummer for America's most popular rock band. Despite not being a very accomplished drummer and an even less talented singer, you've managed to score a Top 10 single that propels your group to superstardom and your limited drumming skills are still recognized enough to be considered "influential," albeit mostly for appearance rather than ability.
Is all of this enough to cash out and go solo?
Some may claim it was Peter Criss' ego that led him to quit KISS, while others may cite the drugs, pressure or the sheer displeasure of having to work with Gene Simmons. Whatever the reason, if Criss' first solo record from 1978 was any indication that embarking on a solo career was the wrong career direction entirely, his second offering Out Of Control confirms it.
Teaming up again with longtime collaborator Stan Penridge, a friend from his pre-KISS days who co-wrote "Beth" and is all over that 1978 solo monstrosity, Out Of Control was supposed to serve as Criss' first foray into post-KISS independence. And like the solo record before this, life on his own seems to be a very challenging place for Criss as it resides in the middle of his hard-rock persona and his obvious comfort with more standard rock fare.
"Looks like this time I'm on my own/Starting over again" Criss muses with the syrup-laden opener "By Myself," an obligatory nod to the obvious. But whatever all by myself jive that Criss tries to impose from the get-go is nothing but baloney, particularly when the second song reaches into KISS' own limited arsenal of hooks and lifts straight from nemesis Simmons' hit "Calling Dr. Love" for "In Trouble Again." In fact, the rest of Out Of Control is so dismal that you almost wish Simmons' would have sued Criss for copyright infringement, thereby preventing it from ever obtaining a release date.
It is the work of mere obligation instead of any real inspiration. Out Of Control is a lazy recording of two mildly talented buddies pissing away one man's lottery winnings on the misguided notion that there is an audience for a old top cat who has used up his nine lives already.
Let's say you're like me, a masochist, and you set out to review the first Peter Criss solo album from 1978, released as part of the band's solo record project where all four members released their own solo record simultaneously, but as KISS.
Follow me?
Anyway, during the course of reading about why that record was such a piece of shit you discover that Criss drummed for another band called Chelsea, and they actually released a record for Decca several years before KISS had ever formed.
And as a masochist you dig deeper, to the point where you actually go and check out this lone Chelsea record, because you are curious: "Just how bad can this band be?"
I suppose it depends on what you consider to be "bad," but the short answer is "pretty bad" with the asterisk by the overall rating indicating that it "has some weird vibe" to it that qualifies Chelsea as a worthy garage sale find, if not for the fact that it contains Peter Cris(s)' first recorded offering, but because it is a slice of how clueless record companies were in 1970, seemingly signing bands with such blind (and deaf) reasoning that an album like this was even considered.
But here are the things that make Chelsea weirdly alluring:
It was produced by the same dude that produced Van Morrison's Astral Weeks and Moondance.
That same dude also produced John Cale's Vintage Violence album.
John Cale performs viola on Chelsea for two tracks.
One of the tracks features him with oodles of reverb, giving the performance a very droney and weird vibe.
The lone track composed by the entire band, "Polly Von," is clearly designed to be the band's "epic" and is somewhat intriguing. It comes complete with strings and an endless guitar solo on one channel while a reverb-laden one is found on the other.
More reverb.
There are many more things that make Chelsea less alluring, primarily:
Chelsea-the band-never seem to discover what kind of band they are. One moment they're folk, another they're a trippy psychedelic band, sometimes they get a little bluesy, and others they want to rock out.
The singer is devoid of personality and an awful songwriter.
Peter Criss' drumming is notably shitty.
The best that frontman Peter Shepley can come up with is along the lines of "It's a long long river/So just let it run/It's a long long journey/But there's only one" ("Long River"), which was probably heavy as fuck at the time, given the amount of drugs these N.Y.C. hippies were ingesting. The worst would have to be the line "hard rock music" repeated over and over ("Hard Rock Music") while Criss inexplicitly bangs on some bongos.
Squint hard enough and you can hear some kindred spirits with the Velvet Underground, particularly with Cale's brief cameo. But such squinting can also make a migraine, which is ultimately ill-advised since Chelsea can produce enough of a headache on its own thanks to the band's endless parade of indecision and meanderings.
In other words, Chelsea is much better than Criss' 1978 solo offering and, to be completely honest, it's better than a bunch of titles in KISS' catalog. But other than the novelty of serving as a footnote to KISS' pre-makeup history...excuse me, kisstory...there is very little need to seek out Chelsea.
When the members of KISS decided to take advantage of their stardom by releasing four records simultaneously, the decision merely accentuated the reality that the band's real talents were noticeably restricted to just a few members - and even then, the talent was either in short supply or frustratingly sporadic.
With Peter Criss, there was at least a sliver of potential since the drummer of "the hottest band in the land" was the only member to actually have a major label deal with a record company prior to his cat makeup, albeit briefly with the one-record offering of his previous band Chelsea.
The band imploded while recording their second album, which is not saying a lot since they were never really that good to begin with. So why on Earth would Criss return to leftover material from Chelsea's second album when it came time to slop together songs for his first solo record after being blessed with KISS' golden ticket success?
Chock it up to drugs, pressure, or that aforementioned talent void, because Peter Criss not only ranks as the worst offering in KISS' misguided solo project venture, it quite possibly be one of the worst records ever presented with a platinum disc for sales exceeding 1,000,000 units.
Dreadfully overproduced and rigidly performed to the point where any passion has been sucked dry from the performance, Peter Criss is a mirror of the excess that began to infiltrate the KISS line-up. It's also a testament to the KISS Army for how much they were willing to endure for the logo and the band members who facilitated mediocrity.
Criss peppers his solo album with weak and misguided attempts at what can only be described as jazz/disco/soft rock blend, propelled by his tepid drumming and his Chelsea cohort Stan Penridge's anonymous guitar work. Female backing vocalists are added to sweeten the mix while horns pop up on several tracks, making some songs sound like outtakes from the jingle factory. A pointless cover of "Tossin' & Turnin'" is added as a nod to Criss' youth, while side two finds him giving up the percussion duties entirely to a session player, giving him more time to focus on his vocal abilities. Admittedly, the vocals probably deserved a session player more than the drums
Clocking in at a mere 35 minutes, Peter Criss could be viewed as a bold attempt to distance the artist from the choreographed bombast of his more notable group offerings, or at least a glimpse at the kind of music Criss really enjoys outside of the make-up and pyrotechnics. But that would require at least a hint of some fundamental ability or at least a desire to create something somewhat memorable.
There is no evidence of either on this record. Instead, Peter Criss marks the first KISS record that confirms every single critic's complaint about this band while gutting their credibility entirely.
Formerly known as Follow That Bird! Austin, Texas' Mirror Travel have grown to become a local favorite, while national notoriety has become somewhat more eluding, thanks to the label nonsense holding their debut hostage for some time and the cement block of their previous band name holding them back some too.
You can almost hear the band's rebirth in Mexico, as the recording of the debut transpired in Marfa, Texas-a progressive high desert community of 2,000 people. The isolation afforded Mirror Travel to focus on their arrangements, and what's finally offered is well worth the wait and well suited for a larger listen.
The extra focus is critical as Mirror Travel mine dreamy shoegaze soundscapes with an honest link to their psychedelic grandfathers. What follows often begins with a few measures of garage rehearsal before opening up the garage doors to pay homage to vast array of desert stars with extended moments of textured jams.
The gnarlier basement blasts are found towards the front, particularly with the rapid-fire "I Want You To Know" and the three-chord/two-thirty title track. By the time you've made it to side two, the tracks start edging past the five minute mark and the additional time unleashes a completely new identity for Mirror Travel.
With "Pinholes," Mirror Travel have made the leap to dream pop bliss even before they double-time everything around the two minute mark and really make it purr. Around minute five, it feels like they might be ready to wrap things up, but then drummer Tiffanie Lanmon puts a little extra umph in her ride cymbal and starts the whole thing up again, until it finally crumbles to a close about a minute later.
Lanmon is a wonderfully intuitive drummer, providing nuances that would have been lost with a heavier hand. Her touch contributes greatly to the airy bounce that compliments the ever-present reverb found on Lauren Green's vocals.
While lacking in noticeable range, Green's voice does offer Mexico a very distinct personality. But it's her guitar performance that is the record's biggest surprise and most impressive contribution. As a power trio, there is a rather large void to fill in the required dynamics of any rock band, particularly one that navigates with such dream pop intentions. And since Mirror Travel rely on matters like distortion very conservatively, Green doubles up her guitar duties with some textured picking that's pretty intricate at times. It's two very distinct personalities when she takes on this role, and it seems to suggest that she's able to adapt her playing, offering a range that isn't noticeable in her vocal abilities.
On "Young Gold" they break out the old "So You Want To Be A Rock and Roll Star" one-two and reprise the whole garage biography before unleashing the album closer "Stoner." Again, there's little beyond a few chords and a questionable beat, but that's enough to muster up some pretty awesome dramatics captured in this West Texas studio.
Mexico resembles the long drive that begins at dawn and ends in the middle of nowhere, perhaps a dangerous spot in Mexico where there's a chance you may not have the necessary means to get back into safe hands. As the record clearly demonstrates, the road leading to this drama is both strangely compelling and infectiously mysterious.
It's no wonder why I kept making repeat journeys with this alluring soundtrack.
To be quite honest, considering the 20th anniversary of Green Day's third album, Dookie, was not something I had written down on the calender.
Then I began noticing a lot of attention last week around this record, some of it very passionate accounts of fans who were around the age of puberty when Dookie hit. I point out the age of these writers because it's relevant here. Those are the same years where the emotional bonds with music really begin to take hold. You're suddenly aware of music's ability to adhere with a memory, how the melody can change a mood, and how a lyric can perfectly express the way you feel.
And when you consider how the record's spastic rhythms perfectly matched the Mountain Dew pace of a 13 year-old boy, its punky guitar 'n bass also came with a sugar coating and Billy Joe Armstrong's lyrics could easily be lifted from a Ritalin-gobbling freshman journal penned by any number of rejected weirdos just trying not to be singled out.
Call it the first masterpiece of the ADHD generation, but lets not kid ourselves and put an asterisk by that praise and point out that Dookie's success would not even be possible without the wake that Nevermind created.
There's also a very distinct similarity between these two records, a pair of widely popular efforts that helped define the 90's. They are both indebted to punk rock and have a blatant love of the pop formula, but Cobain's muse feels a bit more natural and certainly more darker than Armstrong's.
To put it bluntly, there's not a thing on Dookie that could pass for pure genius and even at its most basic level, the subject matters discussed throughout the record are little more than the complaints of a chemically imbalanced young American male-a white one at that-who had the advantage of an industry willing to try anything to get a handle on its young audience.
And since Green Day runs on an equal amount of coffee, cream and sugar, the end result was a perfectly positioned package of radio favorites that struck 12-year old ears for the first time. The ones is our area were provided with radio edits of "Longview" that featured special effect noises in place of words like "masturbation" and "fucking," ensuring that it would be another 5 years before the kids would figure out what the song was really about.
Sure, Armstrong manages to sneak in a few moments of personal introspection: "Coming Clean" is a legitimate coming out story written with honesty and braveness and "In The End" is another example of Armstrong addressing deeper emotional matters. But the reality is that the vast majority of Dookie centers around trivial little dramas, highlighting a new population of over-medicated teenage boys, addicted to immediate gratification and always opening up about their feelings instead of trying to address the root cause of their discontent first.
Don't ask where Burt is hiding.
Because this all came packaged in a faux punk rock cover (mine still has the Ernie doll on the back) and because there were millions of disinfranchised kids who related to and ate this candy bar up, Dookie became hugely successful and, by default, incredibly influential.
This all boils down to the fact that Dookie is, at its best, a three-star record, but because it now serves as ground zero for a huge segment of the record-buying public and their exposure to "punk" rock, this rating had to go up a notch.
What prevents it from being a five-star record? Its sheer laziness for one. The band cherry picked its riffs, postures and attitudes from the much braver souls before them, and in return they provided a grand statement of so much entitled narcissism that its closer to that turd on the cover than the diamond it received from its sales figures.
Dookie continues to be relevant to the novices that embraced it and related to its made-up dramas, while failing to provide any real incentive to check out the streets in which they came from. You always knew the Ramones were from N.Y.C. You understood that the Sex Pistols were very much a part of London. But with Green Day, the spotlight of the band's former address of 924 Gilman Street has turned into an insular examination of Armstrong's own headspace.
You have to wonder, had they represented their origins with a bit more dignity, wouldn't more of us be celebrating the 20th anniversary of Dookie alongside the folks that cite it as an important element to their punk rock diplomas?
A double, spread over two discs with designated titles ("Roads" and "Towns"), Rickolus' Troubadour is either the work of a self-obsessed singer-songwriter with a much needed editor or an artist with a creative burst so massive that an editor would only corrupt the musician's artistic intent.
Take your pick, really, because there's evidence of both floating around these two dozen cuts, penned by Richard Colado in a massive ode to his wife. But love makes us do crazy shit, and I suppose parlaying the muse into a double isn't that bad, particularly if the results are worthwhile.
They are, most of the time, straddling the line of romantic intentions and a fair amount of processed cheese if you dwell too much on easy journal details like "We drank to much on Halloween/But ended up under your sheets/With glitter on our lips and hands" which, while I'm sure was a wonderful memory for Colado, has no practical frame of reference for the rest of us trying to find a connection to the song.
The other issue-and this is a complaint throughout the "Roads" selections-is how it blatantly channels the In The Aeroplane Over The Sea and makes very little attempt to either add or differentiate from it. So be warned, half of Troubadour requires listeners face the unenviable task of having to wade through Colado's devotional to his better half using tired Jeff Mangum strategies. It's enough to make you want to throw in the towel and cuddle up with good book, say perhaps, The Diary Of Anne Frank.
The good news is that the approach used on the "Roads" disc aren't repeated for "Towns." The difference is apparent immediately on the decidedly more rhythmic half of Troubadour, beginning with the low budget electronic grit of "Hobby Horse" and continuing through the course of a dozen more similarly appointed offerings.
The songs still revolve around Colado's relationship, but there's almost a feeling that he's working from a completely different palate and writing from more relatable events. The bargain priced electronics give "Roads" a more experimental feel in some instances, but this is counterbalanced with Colado's voice which takes on a more emotive and melodic feel against the second hand beats.
"Most Of Us" nicely mines that moment when you're young, but confined to an adult world and you get a brief moment outside of your grown up obligations to go out, just like you did in the old days. You suddenly realize that you're not really missing much by staying home instead of going out. "Most Of Us" documents Colado's moment of clarity coming home and finding the porch light on, reflecting a simple act of kindness but also illuminating the notion that perhaps life is happening right in front of you, and you just need to remove those blinders of self-pity to see it.
At a mere 2:13, "Dreamzzz" hints at the possibility that Rickolus could sneak a hit out of left field one of these days, and it'd probably be more of a surprise for him than the rest of us. With little more than three chords, a primitive beat and a simple chorus of "Do you want to be in my dreams/You know I really want you to," Rickolus could easily tweak up the charm and ear candy here and find himself with a lot more ears paying attention than his obligatory cult artist status provides him now.
Closing cut "Whatever Etc." reminds us "I won't find the meaning of life this weekend," which might be a good thing considering how his significant other prompted such a long-winded exercise in this two-fer. Hopefully, weightier topics won't prompt another burst of creative excess, or at least the kind that forces the listener to whittle down the end result rather than to leave them wanting more.
When I began this review, it initially came with a lower rating.
In fact, the text to the actual review was more than a little harsh, to the point where I knew something was eating at me. "I used to love this album when it first came out," I thought, "so why all of a sudden am I gunning just to knock these guys down?" I knew there was something more to my sudden distaste for Under A Blood Red Sky, a stop-gap extended play released less than a year after their third album War and bargain priced just before Christmas of '83.
So why the dramatic shift in opinion after 30 years. It is true that tastes change, but if anything, time has confirmed a lot more positive aspects of music I enjoyed as a teenager and young adult, particularly records that I specifically remember listening to alot.
And Under A Blood Red Sky was a record that I listened to alot.
I know what you're thinking, and you're right. A lot on my changing opinion of this record and the band in general, all centers around that self-righteous fuck Bono whose mere image evokes a strong negative reaction from me.
I suppose you could make the argument that those very abhorrent qualities in Bono were already visible three decades ago, but I'm sticking with the idea that the first real evidence of oversaturation didn't really come until The Joshua Tree blew up. And even that was a record in which you said, "Man, this fucker is going to blow up" because it was one of those albums where everything just aligns up for a band, and you know it's their time.
And you know there's nothing you can do about it. If they were your band for a moment, they became everyone's band afterwards.
But The Joshua Tree wasn't the record that forced me to reconcile with the fact that U2 had become too big to hold on to.
That record for me was Under A Blood Red Sky.
Which leads me to the other, much larger reason why I was so hellbent on ripping out a mean and snarky review of it, despite the fact that:
1.) being mean and snarky about U2 is the fucking norm today, man, what's point of spending any amount of time just to be a redundant voice of the obvious?
2.) I hadn't actually listened to the record in over 20 years, probably, and it seemed cheap to pen a mean-spirited review without giving the record a complimentary listen again.
3.) I knew that I actually still loved Under A Blood Red sky after all.
There is another reason why I got a bit aggressive with this review's first draft, and it takes place in the Fall of 1984, prior to the release of U2's fourth studio effort, The Unforgettable Fire. I had been invited to escort a very lovely young lady to the homecoming dance at her Catholic high school. The school shared a bit of a rivalry with the local public school that I attended, mainly because the Catholic high school's boys basketball team were really good. They were state ranked and could really put it to our squad when we had the obligatory tip off between each other, and that created a little bit of drama in the community at times.
But, you know, I don't sweat such nonsense. Plus, the chick was super hot and only a moron would put some silly school rivalry in front of going on a date with such a fine looking young woman, am I right?
I had this swell '68 Plymouth Fury III coupe in which me, my special lady friend and another couple arrived at the dance at the Catholic high school. I parked in the school's parking lot which was lit and featured a city cop car in front as a certain deterrent.
We went inside, danced a bit, and at one point a group of guys who had graduated the year prior showed up in the gymnasium a bit tipsy. They completely ignored their dates, most of whom seemed to be fine with the idea that they were going to their high school homecoming dance with a college guy, regardless of how little he interacted with her. Regardless of the fact that he was acting more immature than his younger counterparts.
The smug fucks made their way up to the d.j. and one of them pulled out a cassette tape from their pocket. Shortly afterwards, the spoken introduction of "This song is not a rebel song..." came over the portable Peavey loudspeakers and, from that moment on, took on a completely different meaning for me.
The graduates joined forces and began air drumming, playing air guitar or acting like Bono, raising their fists and high-fiving each other's performance.
Nobody acted like Adam Clayton.
I remember that feeling - the resentment building inside of me. Somehow, U2 had slipped out of my hands and into these wealthy suburban Catholic boys.
What makes this all the more ridiculous was the fact that War was already a popular record in my school. Not in the same league as 1999 or Pyromania, but big enough to find its way into multiple car stereos while cruising around on the weekends.
So in reality, it was less about U2 being discovered by more people, but the issue was that I felt they were being discovered by the wrong people. I glared as I watched of this preppy cracker mouthing "How long must we sing this song" into his clenched fist, burning with anger that this group of douchebags were totally ruining one of my favorite bands.
Suddenly, a teacher/chaperone/whatever comes walking hurriedly into the gym and heads to the cop that's supposed to be acting as security. He'd been standing by the refreshment table for as long as we'd been there, watching the pretty girls dance and trying to look authoritative around the boys.
The guy approaches the cop and I can make out two words: tires and slashed. The word spreads quickly and we all follow the authority figures out to the parking lot to investigate.
It's at this point where we see the damage. Not all, but well over a dozen cars had one or two tires slashed. There were a lot of angry words tossed around and a few more event sponsors circled around the cop as he called for backup. It was clear by the number of vehicles vandalized that there were probably several people involved and that they probably took some time completing it.
One of the rear tires on my Plymouth featured a prominent hole in the sidewall.
I was pissed. If it had been some kind of inter-school retaliation then I felt that I deserved a pass at any vandalism resulting from the hand of a fellow alumni. My Plymouth was a unique car, relatively well know around my peers, and I'm an amiable guy with very few real enemies that would target my tires simply because they were in the parking lot of an opposing school.
We all went back inside and gave our information for the official police report. I questioned out loud why a cop was hired for dance security if there wasn't any real security being provided. That got the cop's attention. He looked at me sternly and asked "What more do you want me to do?"
"I dunno. Maybe leave the soda and cookies long enough to check the parking lot once in a while."
The crime was later solved and I learned that it all resulted because one of the main instigators had an old girlfriend that had moved on from the relationship and asked a new boy to the dance with her. I knew one of the parties involved and confronted him about it several months after he had successfully avoided me. When we finally did have words together, he told me that he was drunk, wasn't actually a part of the tire slashing and had stayed in the car with the others took to the damage. He apologized for being a part of the events and admitted that it was a stupid. When it became clear that I wasn't so easy to forgive him, even after the cost of the damages were settled and he and the rest of his crew had paid their debt to society.
"What more do you want me to do?" he asked.
U2 could have asked the same question. They were not responsible for my miserable evening. They couldn't control the mass fame that was resulting from their music and they certainly didn't deserve the personal vendetta that I felt was owed because of all of this personal drama.
Because Under A Blood Red Sky is a very good live document, deserving of the same praise that is held for such titles like Live At Leeds or any other notable rock and roll concert recording.
Unlike the video version which features nothing but the band's Red Rocks Amphitheatre performance, the audio version pulls from three separate concerts. A few of the tracks are from the Colorado dates, but all of the second side comes from a gig in Germany-including the version of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" which features the infamous "not a rebel song" intro from our most hated frontman.
Speaking of, the Red Rocks video version is clearly the most visually superior document, perfectly suited for the format. Watching Bono connect among rocks, rain and flames was unlike anything else from that decade, and it marked one of the first examples of a band that was initially part of something beneath the mainstream being clearly able to connect with a large audience.
In other words, you saw Under A Blood Red Sky and wondered, "Why isn't everyone getting this?"
And when they did, I got mad. Go figure.
The audio document is nothing more than a well-cherry picked collection, designed to sound like a band that was much bigger than their sales receipts would suggest. In other words, Under A Blood Red Sky was a perfectly constructed marketing tool, helping to create a reality where even venues like Red Rocks would become too small for the band to perform in.
What results from the extended play record is something that prompts novices who are drawn to the visual grandiosity to explore into the band's catalog further. This is something that a good live record should be able to do. The 8 song set lifts the obvious catalog highlights like "I Will Follow," "Gloria," and "New Years Day" while hitting a few deep cuts in the process, all of which pass for first-class material. It suggests to listeners that the band was consistent in their execution, and with the exception of their album October, they really were.
Under A Blood Red Sky not only suggests this, it manages to exceed the originals in many instances. "Sunday Bloody Sunday" is the obvious example of this, but "The Electric Co." really shines and the closer "40," with it's epic outro of the entire crowd singing "How long to sing this song..." made getting to the next U2 show a high priority.
Speaking of "The Electric Co.," the original version of Under A Blood Red Sky contained a moment where the band gets quieter and Bono breaks out a spontaneous taste of "Send In The Clowns." This portion was removed when I bought UABRS on compact disc, the result of a copyright issue. As silly as it may seem, I would try to find a copy with this extra half-minute of banter because it provides another example of how Bono was able to create these memorable moments of connection. It's literally a moment that was repeated for other shows, but put aside how contrived this passage may have been and consider how awesome it must have been to hear a band come across with such sincere intention that moments like this were seen as special.
Listening to it again, it continues to resonate. I'm confident that anyone approaching this band with new ears will find Under A Blood Red Sky as a passionate and memorable statement. What helps is how the band still sounds like they're trying to prove something, and you can hear on another stop-gap live offering a few years later (Wide Awake In America) how much the band had moved from spontaneous moments of emotion to more carefully constructed drama.
The move certainly may have assisted with escalating the cynicism towards U2, but even with decades of the band's frontman slowly eroding their credibility, Under A Blood Red Sky remains as good as a live document as you'll find for these superstars. It captures U2's ability on stage during the end of the band's first creative era and suggests that moving away from that style was a brave one, regardless of how much the move contributed to the lead vocalist's inflated self-worth and how much you want to forget how of their popularity was based on the reality that U2 was once a hungry band who worked very hard at building the sanctimonious stage they walk on now.
