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The Black Halos

The Black Halos' punk-flavored revivalist rock does make popular whiskey rock poseurs like Buckcherry sound utterly ridiculous (not that they need any help with that) but don't expect to hear anything like the cutting edge fury found on, say, At The Drive In's last disc--another modern five-piece with roots in classic punk (the MC5). Without any real exploration of the boundaries of punk rock, The Black Halos remain a derivative, revivalist band. Luckily for their sake, there's still an audience hungry for the fundamental stuff. It is quite possible that they thrive on these nostalgic parallels, but wasn't it At The Drive In who impressed Iggy Pop enough to get the original Stooge to sing on Relationship of Command? Still, it's impossible to deny The Black Halos' natural aptitude for crafting and carrying out catchy, greased-up, triumphant punk rock numbers, and with a North American tour on the horizon, expect to feel more than just a ripple from this band's exploits.

-Dan Cullity
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Candy Snatchers

The now-defunct Cheap Dates match the Candy Snatchers in intensity and wide-eyed fury, but their brand of punk is more sinister and sometimes devolves into raunchy hard rock. The vocals--Pete Jay on eight of the tracks, Matt Howe on two--are raw and guttural, owing a debt to the Butthole Surfers' Gibby Haynes. Notably, "Shortends" is a moody, swaying chunk of bad attitude that draws its poison from a thick, dirty guitar groove. But there is plenty of freewheeling punk offered here. "Transfer" rides a skittish lead guitar riff into a short, sweat-soaked workout that begs for escape with the chorus, "I need a transfer outta here." "Highway 10" is entirely instrumental and should be played in a black Buick convertible speeding through the desert. This ain't you're NYC or Motor City street punk. The Cheap Dates' loose vibe conjures thoughts of the Reverend Horton Heat during his baser punk moments or the aforementioned Surfers' persistent rebellion.

-Dan Cullity
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Church of Misery

This is extremely good Doom. It is reminiscent of Black Sabbath, but not so much in style and content, but very similar in intent and heaviness. Tomohiro Nishimura and Tatsu Mikami are two very wicked string-wringers that will rock your world with their seismic doom bass riffs and down-tuned guitar genius. I even have to say that I'll even concur with the comparison of vocalist Toshiaki Negishi to Lemmy of Motörhead. Yeah, but Lemmy magnified to ten and with a really deep voice. When you slap it all together it is Church of Misery and Masters of Brutality is not an overstatement at all. If you need a lesson in brutal doom, hop on the drug train and scream out: "We hate trend. We hate corporate attitudes. We hate the word 'stoner.' Death to false stoners. Let there be doom." That spiffy little manifesto is on the CD. The song titles alone are a statement. A statement to the sick and demented with every song dedicated to a serial killer, but the Blue Öyster Cult cover and "Green River" and I think the Seattleites could guess a killer on one. If you can handle such heavy fare as "Killfornia" (tribute to Ed Kemper), "Ripping into Pieces" (tribute to Peter Sutcliffe), "Megalomania" (tribute to Herbert Mullin) and the title cut, "Master of Brutality" (hymn to Gacy), if you think you can handle the heat in the kitchen, Lizzy Borden, bring your axe and bong.

-Sabrina Haines
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Clutch

Over a near ten-year career, Clutch have been squeezed uncomfortably into a few different hard rock subgenres--hardcore, blues-punk, and most recently funk-metal. The latter suggests a debt to the late '80s and '90s trio of groundbreaking and envelope-pushing heavier acts from the San Francisco area--Primus, Faith No More, and Fishbone. Since Clutch test the boundaries of the hard rock form with just as much passion and gusto as any of those three, this isn't a bad parallel, but their swirling--at times funky and at others downright brutal--sound is always open to better interpretations. Pure Rock Fury further clutters a clear path towards pigeonholing the band. The galloping troika of songs that kicks off the album rocks with a formidable blast of irresistible grooves, challenging rhythms, and swaggering attitude. "Open Up the Border" is at least an infectious ode to free trade, but could very well be a near perfect hard rock song. The combination of Jean Paul Gaster's loose, lively drumming and Tim Sult's ultra-sly wailing over a meaty chord progression is by itself enough to send adrenaline racing through the veins. Add a rumbling bass line from Dan Maines and one of singer/lyricist Neil Fallon's more compelling topical roller coaster rides and it's clear that Clutch have hit a grand slam. "Red Horse Rainbow" is a killer jam that could be the closest studio-birthed representation of the frenzied spirit on display whenever they raid a stage. Maines and Gaster pave the way for an uninhibited guitar freak-out by holding down a thick, rolling pulse. In a well-conceived partnering that would launch an interesting side project, Sult locks horns with Wino Weinrich in a guitar duel for the ages. The brawny riffmeisters trade off skittish, overdriven lines that dance to the ferocious rhythm of Gaster's hands and feet. This talented skinsman slips into the zone--his being a marriage of the power of Bonham and the speed and dexterity of Moon--during the outro, as the other musicians bust their butts keeping pace.

The addition of various guest contributors to Pure Rock Fury takes nothing away from the autonomy of the four members. Rather, it's a celebration of common musical bonds that brings about some fierce songs and interesting sounds. Along with Wino's blazing guitar on "Red Horse Rainbow" and "Brazenhead," (also recorded live) there are also memorable contributions from Dan Kerzwyck of Sixty Watt Shaman--throaty hallelujahs on "Sinkemlow"--percussionist Heartbeat--congas on "Frankenstein" and "Brazenhead," as well as some soulful background vocals on "Brazenhead"--and the legendary Leslie West--guitars and additional vocals, as well as co-writing props on "Immortal." West's freewheeling style, cultivated in the late 60s and all throughout the 70s with Mountain and assorted other musical combinations, is uncovered in the thick, bluesy riffs that are an indispensable part of Sult's relentless rhythms. It's strange that his playing appears on such a heavy, straight-ahead rocker like "Immortal," rather than on one of the more stretched-out, jam-oriented numbers. Nevertheless, Clutch and West deliver a twenty-ton dose of power and aggression, accentuated by Fallon's defiantly hubristic line: "Blood of lions / I liquefying / I ain't dying / I am immortal." It's this very defiance that presses Clutch to keep making fantastic, totally original music that'll be ignored by radio stations, but gobbled up like gruel at the trough of freedom by a rabid fan base. Pure Rock Fury is similar in scope and intensity to the kinds of albums that made worldwide stars out of bands who roamed the earth when rock was king, and is as close as one can get to getting an earful of one of their transcendent live shows. Clutch make loving heavy rock 'n' roll easy.

-Dan Cullity
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Dimmu Borgir

Shagrath's vocals are tremendous and clear, reverberating with power and emotion--all translated via a wonderful growl. Vortex's clean vocals are startlingly intense and emotive. Silenoz and Galder (from Old Man's Child) combine sinewy guitars into a sharp, twisted musical juggernaut. Nick Barker's drums are perfect for the more deathly, epic sound of Dimmu Borgir. Fredrik Nordstrom's (Studio Fredman) pristine production brings out the best in Dimmu Borgir. It's really cool the way the Gothenburg Opera Orchestra contributes on a few tracks rather than the band using canned samples.

After one listen thru the disc you'll think, "Hmmm not bad, but let's take another listen." And then you're hooked. I had "Burn in Hell" on repeat for a week in my car--honest! This song is incredible. If all were right in this world both Twisted Sister and Dimmu Borgir would be wealthy rapscallions (like Chumbawumba) for this version of "Burn in Hell." It should be released everywhere, but it will only appear on the European version of Puritanical Euphoric Misanthropia--not the American (no extra tracks) or Japanese (who get "Devil's Path" as their extra track) releases. Every song is loaded with character and it shows signs of breaking future molds. "Blessings Upon the Throne of Tyranny," "Hybrid Stigmata," and "Puritania" are black metal rockers rife with symphonic overtones and laced with epic lyrics and proportions. "The Maelstrom Mefisto" is the second best song next to "Burn in Hell." Dimmu Borgir has become a large (six members), mean, epic, powerful black metal machine with a dark heart.

The split vocals allow Dimmu Borgir to transmit the hate and agony, but they also show signs of a gray area--a drop of humanity in the demonic armor. Their music and their leather and spikes disguise the man below, but their music is becoming more personal and less along the Satanic party lines and more like free-thinking-gothic-dark-dangerous-gentlemen-politely-possessed epic lines. This is definitely not a softening, but a statement of individuality. Perhaps this is an evolution. It feels like a transition album, but maybe that's just because of all the new members. If the next album in better than this, I'll be in euphoria. If it sucks, oh well, I'll wallow in misanthropia.

-Sabrina Haines
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Downer

-Steve Weatherholt
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Fear Factory

-Steve Weatherholt
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The Flying Dutchman

Composed, performed and produced by Hanyo van Oosterom and heavily interwoven with the narrative voice of Ciska Ruitenberg, Trip to the Core is an ethnic-ambient pop journey through some rather surreal landscapes. Eminently listenable, Trip to the Core appears just over the horizon like a Holger Czukay experience before dipping back into black waters and resurfacing again like a Hector Zazou creation. Pipes, tubas, guitars, ambient washes, drifting voices, and intoned narratives all swirl around beat structures and pop melodies. But there is a sense of melancholy and dread that I can't seem to shake while listening to this record. I can't place it--it's hovering just behind the curve of the water on the horizon. It is like a phantom ship, shadowing me. Trip to the Core will definitely grow on you if you give it the chance.

-Mark Teppo
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Links:
eM
Rhomb

Mote begins with the self-titled track that had its genesis in a Twilight Zone-type phone call where Michael found himself on the receiving end. Not much more than a minute, it is a short-wave transmission from a microscopic galaxy, hinting at rhythms and textures. Bentley begins "The Bridge" with a squelchy reply before smoothing into longer drones with languorous violin melodies and overtones (ably supplied by Susan Worland) weaving through the sprawling mist generated by the electronic tones. The squelchy burst transmission pops in and out--snarling with heavily agitated electrons in more than one instance--before everything fades into the liquid tones of "Subaqua." This track sets the tone for the rest of the disc--smooth, rolling, blissful ambient tracks that gracefully slip past your screens. There's the crystallized atmospheres of "Reverie," the tone melodies of "Occluded Forms" that is strikingly reminiscent of Harold Budd's work with the Cocteau Twins (the sublime The Moon and the Melodies from 1986), and gentle melodies and little drifts of whistling static that turn one's eyes towards the heavens in "Shoals of Stars." Echoes swirl with aquatic fervor in "In the Drift" while "Islands of Sleep" is flush with deep swells and rhythmic pulses. "Epilogue (For Those Who Came Before)" is a stunning conclusion of drifts and beats that speaks so succinctly of the previous hour of music and the previous thirty years of ambient constructions, while still keeping an open ear towards the future. A mote may modestly be just a small particle, but the efforts here of Michael Bentley and Nathan Kreisberg (eM and Rhomb, respectively) demonstrate able ability to make the small and slight so memorable in its passage.

-Mark Teppo
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Godflesh

-Steve Weatherholt
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H3llb3nt
Sick City

What the fuck? I'm in my living room, legs spread, hips cocked. I've got my air guitar ready and I'm primed. But there's nowhere to go! This isn't "Suicide Jag" of Burn Out at the Hydrogen Bar, this is Covergirl territory. I'm annoying my neighbors with a post-nuclear Frank Sinatra crooner! I give a couple of experimental jabs at the air guitar, but the motion is pointless--I'm only going to look like an ass. I want to be pissed. I want to find some reason to tear this disc out of the player and shout obscenities at it: "Where's my wall of sound! Why aren't my ears bleeding?"

But I can't. Because the disc is really, really good. And it's my fault that I'm expecting these guys to be as stuck in the past as I am. When we entered the last decade of the 20th century, those of us who were prowling the fringes fell into the mad spiral of the Chicago industrial sound, and while some of the names are the same and the sentiments which fueled that music are still burning fiercely, the music has morphed--transmogrified into a static-laced, bass-driven, intricate pop monster. It's a beast that doesn't so much as slouch as come on with a strong walk and a mouth full of perfect teeth.

From the looks of the Sick City community, this is the beginning of a new era of partnerships and collaborations. Hardcore Vanilla is the manifesto for the new iteration of the "industrial." In two years, it will be the standard to which everything will be compared; in five years, it will be the only record you still listen to from 2001; and in ten years, it will be the only record everyone claims as the major influence on their sound.

-Mark Teppo
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Hotbox

This is revved up punk à la The Supersuckers, with the sassy sweet vocals of Mel Chappell leading the charge. Behind her come the amphetamine-fueled guitars of Barry Ward and Chris Rest, shored up by Bob Simmons on drums and Warner Harrison on bass, whose low end playing is really the secret weapon on Lickity Split, not the album's Capuan cover. With punk party anthems like "Let's Get Stupid," "Busted Again" and "Strippers Motto" ("I got news for you baby babe / You'll get fucked but you won't get laid.") Lickity Split proves to be much more than just dessert. I stopped having reoccurring dreams about the album cover a few nights ago. Instead, I've been dreaming that Shohen Knife has been singing backup to Mel Chappell's vocals on the album...and I really have no explanation as to why.

-Craig Young
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Hungry Lucy

-Mark Teppo
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Meat Beat Manifesto
Tino Corp

You would think that you'd be in for a fantastic ride. And, for a while anyway, the ride is good. But maybe we've come to expect too much from Dangers and Company. Meat Beat Manifesto albums have always cracked the next level and left jaws waggling. Hello Friends is a complete overview of where Tino Corp has gone with its beat explorations. But, you know? It never doesn't sound like the work of Jack Dangers. Yeah, we know the sound and we like the sound--the sound is our good friend--but it overstays a little this time around. If you can find the original Tino Breaks records, take an adventurous journey with them and sample their more whacked offerings. If you're looking to stay home and nod off while an old friend does his thing in the room with you, the diluted distillation of Hello Friends may just be the thing.

-Mark Teppo
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Jim White

As for his music, he'll probably end up on a lot of "Americana Flavor of the Month" lists, but the sound is more "trip-folk" or "hick-hop." It's rural life cluttered with the detritus of new-millennium living: a wreck in the front yard and Internet access in the bedroom. (In Corvair, he sings "Got a Corvair in my yard / It hasn't run in fifteen years / It's a home for the birds now / It's no longer a car." Is that the specter of Ralph Nader hanging over the proceedings?)

The opening track, "Chained to a Fence in Mississippi," opens with a banjo line over an old-school hip-hop beat, then some groovy organ hops aboard and peals of slide guitar crop up in the background. As the song works its way from subtle toe-tapper to outright ass-shaker, some '70s soul wah-wah guitar begins to chug and White purrs (like Superfly from a hick town), "My Trans-Am is missing / My Trans-Am is missing / I guess no more kissing the girl who loved my car." "The Wrong Kind of Love" finds White's spooky Deep South narrative leading into quiet banjo plucking and then dissolving into a dreamy Quiet Storm groove. (Sade keyboardist Andrew Hale leaves his production stamp all over this one.)

This is a remarkable album, full of strangeness and a wide palette of moods. White's lyrics are possessed by those small American places highways run past without a thought. "Dust storm of memory / Truck-stop reverie / 3:00am in my hometown / Mr. Trucker Man, don't slow down in this little town," warns White in "Bound to Forget," which culminates in acoustic slide, gospel hand-claps and banshee-like moans of theremin. The haunted beauty of "Christmas Day" (produced by former Yellow Magic Orchestra member Sohichiro Suzuki) pits sleigh bell, mandolin and acoustic guitar against all kinds of post-rock ether as White crows, "I saw the smile on your face as I was crying in a Greyhound station on Christmas Day...in 1998." J.W.'s recorded psyche has more layers than a wedding cake (or Dante's Inferno), and this is an album that will grow up one side of you and down the other.

-Erik Hage
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-Sabrina Haines
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Labradford

-Mark Teppo
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