Archive for category Pointless Music Reviews
Thrash Or Die Is A Band: Mayonnaise Disciples of Review
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on January 14, 2014
Deep from the hills of Caligula rode a horse with no name. And that name was Thrash. From the bowels of the Everywhere and the end of the Nowhere. Gnarfeling Garthocks from the hills of Montezuma to the fields of Tripoli. Galloping gyrating priapysmic Persepolis of perception. Panopticon of pleasure. Purple people. Eaters. And that name was Thrash.
Open to Track 2012. Truck Turner was a man with a plan and that plan was Panama. And the name of that plan was Thrash. Mountains upon mountains of mayonnaise; wandering Muppets of malfeasance. Pituitary puppets of penultimate progress. Then why do you call his name? Whomever begat the beginning and began the begetting. Retroactively saved. Radioactively shaved. Seen through the crawling eye. The one-eyed wonderer wobbled into town. With the sunset at his back and the western sky on his trunk. He wore a hat and his name was stenciled in blood and guts into his cavernous chest. And that name was Thrash.
Barfing sarcophagus. Thrash or Die is a diet. Thrash or Diet will not die. Vomit induced vomit on a Friday night. Metal Thrashing Muppets. Muppet Thrashing Mad. Vomit till we party. Party like it’s 1929. Falling into the ever-loving void. Named after the one who cannot be named. And that name was Thrash.
Mountains of morbid mosh potatoes mangle a Moshpit Messiah. WAKE UP! The Return of the Thrashlord destroys your spinal cord. WAKE UP! A fetal flurry of Fatal Fury and the precise precision of Terrorvision. WAKE UP! To the sound of galloping rage that will nuke your ribcage. WAKE UP! To the name that will maim and defame the lame all the way to the heavy metal Hall of Fame. And that name was Thrash.
That canal was rooted in his tooth. That tooth was rooted in his face. That face was rooted in his mind. That mind was rooted in reality. That reality was rooted in belief. That belief was rooted in error. That error was rooted in faith. That faith was rooted in progress. That progress was rooted in death. That death was rooted in name. And that name was Thrash. And that name was Thrash or Die.
An Astroillogical Review of Ewigkeit’s “Back To Beyond”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on August 19, 2013
An awful night of strep throat induced fever dreams are probably not necessary in order to appreciate Ewigkeit’s new record “Back To Beyond”, but it certainly made my experience unique. I’ve been living inside of this album for a good few weeks and thought I understood it, but a head full of prednisone, amoxicillin and raging germs can make you experience something totally differently. I fell asleep with the album on repeat on Friday night and lay there for 15 hours hovering between this world and another, far more terrible place.
Salvador Dali once said, “Give me a rag covered in paint thinner and I’ll draw you the real world.” I’m not sure what he meant, or even if he even said that, but I can relate. I have traveled beyond the stars for a few hideous hours, buoyed on waves of cascading keyboards and tragic light. The reality of space is more ghastly then you can possibly imagine.
Poets often comment on the night sky and all of its beauty. This is because they are delusional. Outer space offers nothing more than horrible disfigurement and immediate death. A short stint in the vacuum of space unprotected by hundreds of pounds of survival gear would turn your lungs into piñatas. If your body were sucked into a black hole, you would be turned into something vaguely resembling angel hair pasta. If you came within 20 football fields of a star, every part of your body would be incinerated in blast of heat and agony. Where is the beauty in any of this?
Sure, space is silent and peaceful. So is a coffin. When I think of the tranquility of outer space, I am often reminded of that horrifying scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey where astronaut Frank Poole is released into the nether reaches of nothingness. He spins and spins and spins. Forever. No hope of rescue. An eternal death spiral.
People often make the unfortunate mistake of confusing calm with peace. A bear can be calm, but it sure as hell isn’t peaceful. The ocean seems so relaxed and unburdened when looking at it from the shore, but if you spend a minute below its veneer of peace without the proper equipment, you will spasmodically thrash your way to waterlogged annihilation. Death waits for us everywhere, even on greeting cards.
As we stare into the seemingly idyllic vastness of space, it is best to remember that the universe is nothing more than a giant death-making machine for those of us who are tethered to the very specific circumstances that permit life. The universe only tolerates our species, regularly reminding us of its profound disinterest in our well-being.
“Back To Beyond” is a good way to come to terms with the reality of space. Its soft layer of elegance hides a core of shrill, furious brutality. The illusion of breathtaking serenity is perfectly juxtaposed with the cruelty and violence of the night sky . It is a stunningly gorgeous vision of despair in perpetuity.
Wolverine Like Creature Reviews Carcass “Surgical Steel”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on August 13, 2013
I woke up about two months ago with a wolverine on my porch. I think it was a wolverine. I can’t really tell. It is a horrifying beast that smells like dead otters. When I found it, it looked cute enough. Whoever left it for me put it in a basket with a blanket around it like it was a baby. However, the minute I took it into my home it went berserk destroying my entire Manowar vinyl collection and the Mille Petrozza velvet painting I had commissioned during a particularly serious Kreator listening binge. I call the thing The Freon Neonate.
The first issue that needed to be addressed was finding it food. I tried microwave pizzas, guacamole dip, Cheetos, Lysol, pepper spray….but it wanted no part of those things. I picked up some groundhogs from the pet store and it seemed to like those much better. They are expensive. One groundhog is about fifteen bucks. Way too much to spend to feed this thing regularly.
My problem was solved about two weeks ago when I took the thing for a walk to the park up the street from me. The Freon Neonate spotted a hipster Jehovah’s Witness knocking on a door in our neighborhood and went wild. He snapped the leash I was walking him with and, in what seemed a matter of seconds, retracted its jaws consumed a hipster five times his size. It was incredible. Nothing was left. Bones, horned-rimmed glasses, Converse sneakers, beard, Elvis Costello tee-shirt, Watchtower magazines….gone.
I wasn’t sure if it liked hipsters or Jehovah’s Witnesses. I fed both to The Freon Neonate. While it barely touched the Witness, gnawing briefly on her arms before losing interest, it sucked down the hipster like it hadn’t eaten in months. It even polished off her Hello Kitty vintage purse in two bites. Problem solved. All I needed to do to keep it healthy was go down to Little Five Points every few days, bag a fresh hipster and we were set.
After a while, I found The Freon Neonate was getting bored. It would lie on its side in its cage for hours making terrible howling noises and horrifying the neighbors. I decided that I would try to teach it English. Its language abilities aren’t bad for a wolverine. It had learned enough to communicate on a basic level by the beginning of August, but we had both got sick of the didactic nature of the lessons pretty quickly. We needed a new challenge.
That’s when I decided to give it a chance to do album reviews for Tyranny of Tradition. I called up Nuclear Blast’s PR department to see if I could get one promotional copy of the new Carcass album for The Freon Neonate to review. They immediately sent me 127 copies of the CD along with a wolverine sized “Surgical Steel” tee shirt. I threw the CD in immediately. Here is how the creature responded to each of the songs.
1985-The Freon Neonate was staring off into space when the album came on, but immediately began to pace back and forth nervously. Halfway through the track it started howling in a perverted attempt to mock Bill Steer’s guitar tone.
Thrasher’s Abattoir-The quick beginning to the song startled the animal. It began thrashing its body against the bars wailing louder and louder.
Cadaver Pouch Conveyor System-The wailing continued reaching its crescendo halfway through this tune. Then, the animal began to say “Gooooooood. Goooooood. BLERGHYPHERB!!!! GOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!”
A Congealed Clot of Blood-It didn’t seem to like this one as much. For the first minute, it bobbed its head, but it lost interest and began to lick its own feet.
The Master Butcher’s Apron-Something in this song made the wolverine unhappy. “EHHHHHHHH…..NO SONG GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD…..GLERPHICKLUHR!!!!!!” With 2:30 left, it gnawed through the bars and began a rampage through the house, breaking furniture and dishes.
Noncompliance to ASTM F899-12 Standard-I spent most of this song chasing the animal around and was unable to take notes. Great tune, but beyond smashing a vase that belonged to my Aunt Penelope, I can’t tell you much about the animal’s reaction.
The Granulating Dark Satanic Mills-Satiated in its desire to destroy things and chewing on the fingers of some kid with an MGMT that I found down at the local mission, the animal was finally able to relax and enjoy the magnificence of this utterly amazing song. We both agreed on this as the best song on the album.
Unfit For Human Consumption, 316 L Grade Surgical Steel, Captive Bolt Piston-I was, again, unable to record any response as the animal had nodded off while enjoying the sedating effect of eating hipster fingers. It seemed happy enough, but I don’t want to speculate as to the animal’s views on the songs based on its snoring.
Mount of Execution-It came out of its comatose state during the acoustic guitar intro and began to howl:
“Souuuuuund….like…..GLERGHPH……GLRRGPHHHHHHHHHHRG……………laaaaaater….Maaagaaaaaaadeth!”
Without knowing the animal’s opinion on the last few Megadeth albums, I was unable to figure out whether this was an endorsement or a criticism.
A Criminological Review of Lion Splicer’s “Holiday in Dystopia”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on October 4, 2012
I’m sitting on the side of the road on a stormy October morning. The clock reads 3:52. My car is bathed in a flood of ominous blue police lights from the car behind me. My speakers are pinned on 50 blaring “Holiday in Dystopia”, the new record from Lion Splicer. Suddenly, a loud knock on the window….
Officer: License and registration.
Me: I was listen to the new Lion Splicer record, Officer. It’s quite good. They shown some genuine progress from their earlier stuff and I already thought that was pretty excellent. They’re really thrashy with a punk rock edge. They remind me a lot of the stuff that used to be on K Records years back like Karp and Fitz of Depression…..
Officer: License….and registration.
Me: I don’t know what you think of the whole crossover scene, but I really dig it. Lion Splicer has moments where they remind me of D.R.I. or, if you are a bit younger, Municipal Waste. It’s never been my favorite scene, but when it’s done well, it’s a lot of fun to listen to. Great party music. The song they have on this record called “The Whip” really gets into the spirit of….
Officer: Listen Son. I just need your license and registration.
Me: I understand that. One of the things that really grabs me about “Holiday in Dystopia” is the band’s willingness to mix in genres you wouldn’t expect. I know a lot of bands today do that, but they really have a knack for how to make it work. The solo on the first song “Jezebel” sounds like something off of a Dick Dale and The Deltones record. Pure surf. I was blown away when I…..
Officer: Okay Son, I’ve had about enough of this talk about this Lion Slicer band….
Me: Lion Splicer. I’ve been assured by the band that they mean no harm towards animals. Particularly lions. They love lions and mean to use their music to….
Officer: Whatever. Listen, I’m not interested in whatever this is you are trying to talk to me about. You were doing 79 in a 35. That’s the issue, Son.
Me: No, no, I understand. I just think that if you went to the bands Bandcamp site and check them out, you wouldn’t be so concerned about minor details.
Officer: Minor det….Son, you were going 43 miles over the speed limit…
Me: 44 actually….
Officer: YES! EXACTLY. So let’s stop with all the talk about this Tiger Beat band….
Me: Lion Splicer.
Officer: Stop interrupting me!
Me: Sorry, I just think that the bands ability to blend bizarre, dissonant noise with catchy rhythms is unique and borders on sheer brilliance. If that’s a crime, ARREST ME! Put the cuffs on me and take me away!
Officer: Gladly.
Watching Ghost From The Masquerade Parking Lot
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on May 14, 2012
A wise man once told me not to pay for what you can get for free. He’s currently doing a stretch of 2 to 5 years at Rikers Island for passing bad checks, but his point was well taken. After my ticket for Saturday night’s Ghost, Opeth, Mastodon show at The Masquearde in balmy Atlanta, Georgia fell through, I was faced with two possible futures. One involved me jumping in my car, heading over to The Varsity and drowing my sorrows in 12 pimento cheese sandwiches and the other involved me standing out in the parking lot and craning my neck around some light poles to get a glimpse of Ghost, the current greatest band in the history of the universe. The choice was obvious.
By the time I got to a spot that allowed me to view 1/12th of the stage, they had already launched into a rip-roaring version of their Mercyful Fate tinged masterpiece “Elizabeth”. Apparently, I was not the only person leery of actually paying to see a concert. There were two 15-year-olds staring over the fence with expressions of cold, awe-struck horror. One of them had his “throwback” Bullet For My Valentine “Scream, Aim, Fire” shirt on and the other one looked like he was dressed for the eventual random onset of a golf match. They clearly were in the wrong place:
Metal Kid #1: Why is the singer of Mastodon wearing a Pope hat?
Metal Kid #2: I don’t think that’s Mastodon. That’s probably Opeth.
Me: No….that’s Ghost. Ever heard of them?
Both Kids at Once: No????
Me: They are completely crazy. Keep watching. You’ll see some terrible things.
Metal Kid #2: What do you mean?
Me: Well, first of all, you know where he got that hat from?
Metal Kid #1”: No.
Me: He stole it from the real Pope.
Metal Kid #1: No….No way! Is that true?!?!
Me: Oh yeah. These guys are pure evil. The drummer punched the Pope one time at an IKEA in Munich and the singer took the hat and ran. They mugged the Pope for Godsakes! They were supposed to play America a year ago but they were banned from the United States.
Metal Kid #2: Whoa! What for?
Me: They are into trafficking and selling animal organs. The singer got caught trying to sneak 150 sheep livers into his suitcase when they went through customs. It was a big international incident. That and the whole thing with the walrus got them into a bunch of trouble….
Metal Kid #1: (horrified) Walrus??? What happened with the walrus???
Me: Jesus, doesn’t anyone read the newspaper anymore!!!! They did a concert in Poland and at the end of the show they brought a walrus on stage and beat it to death with hammers. They cut it up and gave pieces to everyone in the audience. It was unbelievable. They put birthday candles in each of the pieces! People ate it completely raw and something like 46 people died of food poisoning. Horrible! That’s what got them on the FBI’s 12 Most Wanted List.
Metal Kid #2: Oh my god! Wow! These guys are awesome!
Metal Kid #1: Do you think they’ll kill a walrus tonight?
Me: God no! They found religion and recently became Jehovah’s Witnesses. They swore off all of that praising Satan and slaughtering animal stuff and now they go door to door preaching The Word. The guitarist, the one dressed like a Jawa from Star Wars, he sold me a copy of Watchtower magazine last month.
Metal Kid #1: Whoa!!!! That’s amazing!
I quickly tired of filling the minds of these kids with insidious poison and began to focus my attention onto the mellifluous tones of Ghost. The solo from Ritual was casacading to its nearly perfect peak when I became aware of a terrible presence only inches from my right arm. As the song ended, I turned and came face to face with The Hipster With the Glass Eye.
The fella was probably six foot three and 98 pounds soaking wet. Imagine your average beardo coffee shop barista decked out in his best Piggly Wiggly tee-shirt and you’ve basically got a mental image of the dude I was looking at. Except this person had a glass eye. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Did he have some terrible accident Vespa racing? Was this some kind of sadistic, post-ironic fashion statement? Did he pull the original eye out in frustration when he couldn’t find a copy of the new Band of Horses album? Do they sell glass eyes at Urban Outfitters now? This rare specimen of humanity had my interest for a full two minutes worth of conversation. Then, things got ugly.
Me: Nobody knows who Ghost is. They’ve only done two interviews. Both of them were in caves. The interviewers were blindfolded and driven hours away to a secure location. They did the interviews wearing hoods!
Hipster With The Glass Eye: So, no one knows who they are?
Me: No one!
Hipster With The Glass Eye: (excitedly) Wow, so they are kinda like Banksy??? That’s awesome!
I looked away and shook my head in horror. An uncomfortable, awkward silence fell over us both. He stood there waiting for a response that would never come. I decided that the night was officially over. I walked to my car filled with hopelessness and despair. At least the band was good.
The Sound of Joyous Suffering: A Retrophiliac’s Review of Horisont’s “Second Assault”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on April 2, 2012
Listening to the new Horisont record “Second Assault” is an adventure in time travel. You don’t simply listen to the record, you hurdle backwards towards it. I am in a darkened, smoke-filled bar. Twenty or so spectators in different states of inebriation hoot and howl arhythmically as the band spews molten rock’n’roll. Half the crowd looks like Popeye Doyle, the other half look like Tuesday Weld. A poorly dressed, ratty haired bunch of skinny kids reach into their chests and pull out their guts in the quixotic attempt to find a higher plane if even for a moment. Their suffering is ours.
It’s an imperfect fantasy, mostly because of the smoke. That itchy, uncomfortable feeling of unfamiliar scum clouding your vision. Not knowing whether to choke or sneeze. Somehow it doesn’t matter and it does. Rock’n’roll itself comes with a bit of discomfort. Loving it is a masochistic pursuit. Horisont gets that in spades. They explode everywhere, like a wayward roman candle knocked on its side. They are dangerous, blistering and blood-fanged; they are the sweat in your eyes and the exhaustion of endless impossibility.
The 70’s reek of old carpet and cheap cologne. The food isn’t nearly as good, the beer is almost always flat and no one seems to have air conditioning. The world was a dark and foreboding place. Nearly every worthwhile movie of the era ended with the protagonist getting his or her head blown off and the great forces of evil crushing the spirit of the individual. Hope seemed ridiculous. As they marched to the hangman, they wore a gallows cool on their sleeve that those living in the airbrushed, cleaner than clean, hyper polished new frontier no nothing of. Horisont belongs there and not here. When I hit play, I am there with them.
Occasionally, I hear a record where song titles don’t matter to me. I don’t want to know what the tune is about, where it was recorded or who produced it. I could care less about the album art and knowing the town where the band started playing is simply an annoyance. I just want to hear the music. Again and again. When the album completes its long-winding journey to nowhere, I can think of nothing but finding the button that will make it start all over again. For me, Horisont “Second Assault” is that type of album.
A Sadomasochistic Review of Sigh “In Somniphobia”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews, Uncategorized on March 2, 2012
All that is left in my world is Sigh’s new album “In Somniphobia”. I love it. I can’t stop playing it. Over and over and over and over again. I love it so much I want to rip off my shirt and paint the letters S-I-G-H across my chest and run around the local Walgreens screaming at the top of my lungs. I want to beat myself over the head repeatedly with a claw hammer until I do such severe damage to my hippocampus that I forget I’ve heard the album just so I can have the pleasure of experiencing it again for the first time. I long to leap off of a bell tower screaming the lyrics at the horrified spectators. I dream of ripping each of my teeth out and sending it to members of the band to thank them for all the joy they have brought to me.
My love for it transcends all possible love I could experience. I want to go to a beautiful meadow, set out a picnic blanket and caress the album telling it all the things I know in my heart and have been afraid to say. I want to run through a field with it in my arms, laughing girlishly, dancing to the wonderful sounds of the wind whipping through the grass. I want to whisper lovingly into the albums ear, telling it my deepest secrets and most personal desires. Surrender unconditionally to its alluring charms. Bathe it in pure, unadulterated affection.
I feel jealous that others will have the chance to hear this album. When I think of others listening to this album I am filled with rage. I will kill them. I will grind their bones into dust. It is my album. Mine! Their love is cheap and tawdry while mine is filled with the sincerity and innocence of a child. They cannot feel what I feel for this album. They are mere mortals while I have been imbued with the gift of second sight by the god Amen-Ra. They live shallow, meaningless lives. Their love will flicker and fade the minute something else comes along. My attraction will never fade, no matter what happens. If nuclear bombs reign down on the city of Atlanta and all around me is melted and disintegrated, the only thing left will be my boney, skeletal fingers embracing the album, stroking its brow.
Don’t listen to the album. You and the mortals around you don’t deserve it. I’ll know if you are listening to it because I’m in front of your house right now. Watching you. I was at the supermarket yesterday when you bought two bags of pork rinds for 2 dollars and 28 cents. I saw you stop at the gas station and get approximately 8 gallons of gas. I know that you stopped in Hot Topic at 3:45 just to look around. You didn’t buy anything. I am watching you all the time. Even as you sleep. If you dare to listen to this album, I will tie you to a chair and feed you hundreds of pounds cheese dip until either your stomach bursts or your entire body explodes.
I’d give it a 2,389,124 out of 10. I am currently in the process of undergoing a medical procedure to add an additional thumb so I can give it 3 thumbs up. There will never be anything better. Music as we know it is over. People should not even bother to try to create anything else. This is the pinnacle, the zenith, the apogee, the climax of all civilization. It is the Hanging Gardens, the Taj Mahal, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. There is no future, there is no past, there is only Sigh’ “In Somniphobia”.
Souls in The Heads of Corpses: A Psychological Review of Allegaeon’s “Fragments of Form and Function”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Existential Rambings, Pointless Music Reviews, Pointyheaded Highbrow Stuff on July 9, 2011
Few people realize that the recent Allegaeon album “Fragments of Form and Function” is a doorway to a separate dimension. Even if it hadn’t turned my body into a giant alpha wave and projected me into the substratum of the upper atmosphere, I’d have thought it was an entirely captivating record. At first, my ears began to shoot orange beams from them. My children noticed this and were immediately frightened. Eventually, they got used to it and my daughter continued talking to my toes and trying to feed them milk. As the solo from the song The God Particle came through my cheap 9-dollar Sony headphones, I became a bundle of pure light energy and bounced from wall to wall. I had the right headphone in my left ear and vice versa, which caused my body to carom with on a strange, knuckleball like trajectory. And then…..a universe without dimension……
Freud once posited that original sin was actually a strange response to witnessing a patricide. After all, the divine sacrifice wouldn’t be called for unless it was in response to a murder. A universe that avenges theft with murder or lust with murder or greed with murder would be the most unjust possible universe. But why would this idea bother us so much? Maybe it is the idea that what creates life also “owes its death to the universe” that fills us with such dread and wills us to punish ourselves over and over. When you are hurdling through the universe at light speed, it all seems irrelevant. The human conception of justice cannot be understood at this speed. All actions happen simultaneously. From above, it’s all the same.
As the stirring stillness of the post-script guitar solo in “Biomech –Vals No. 666” began to well up in my consciousness I became vaguely aware of the illuminated bits of human spiritual form in these bodies of light that surrounded me. Then, the whole ride came to a screeching halt. I realized that I was, in fact, deliriously spinning into some weird new age fantasy that had no baring on anything and would be useless to anyone unfortunate enough to read it. People don’t devolve into sweetness and light, they lumber along in these fleshy tombs for what qualifies as eternity (or about 76.8 years, depending on where you live). We are not spiritual beings on some wondrous journey. We are getting deader by the hour. There is nothing poetic about a corpse that isn’t aware enough of itself to begin rotting. Trapped in this dying form and making up stories about interconnection and light and love and beauty and meaning. Charming.
“WHO ARE YOU TO DESIGN THE LIFE WE LIVE?!?!?!?!!?!!”
A Cosmic Question. Don’t bother. Don’t bother with any of it. “What defines reality? What defines a soul?” That’s your problem, pal. I’m just decay with a bit of personality. Apatheism is the only answer that allows my monstrous form any solace. Yet…I want to know as well. Do I suffer because I want to know or do I suffer because I cannot dream? Descartes went around trying to find souls in the heads of dissected corpses. (Come out with your hands in the air!!!!!!! Put the soul on the ground next to you and don’t make any quick moves!!!!! Up against the wall, Descartes!!!!!) I’d take it over pretending knowledge I do not have or seeking knowledge I cannot gain. I prefer the ever-quickening pace of the double bass in “From Seed To Throne” to any rational explanation of what I am or to anything else this moment can offer. There is that much for now.
Review As Revelation: A Call To Arms
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews, Pointyheaded Highbrow Stuff, The Poetry of Death on June 27, 2011
“children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew)”
-ee cummings
The music review has been pronounced dead in many quarters. Some say it has lost its relevance, some argue it no longer has a story worth telling. I think there is some truth to this idea. There is a formula for a standard review and it is tried and true. A few strong metaphors, a band comparison or two, a reference to earlier work and the albums place within its genre and you’ve got a review. This is not to demean much of the writing that is out there. There are some truly exceptional writers who can take the standard form and make it deeply engaging, but there are a lot of reviews out there that simply don’t make an impact on me. I don’t believe that this is the fault of the writers but rather the fact that the medium they are using has confined its creator to the narrow world of observing and reporting. I think it is fair to say the music review as pure informational medium is probably on its last legs. While I believe that its role as informer of music fans is ending, I believe that it is in the process of going in a bold, exciting new direction that can make it relevant again and even an art form of its own.
Audiences no longer want to be informed, they want to be involved. They are not just looking for information about a band; they are looking for a deeper understanding of what it is like to experience the music. Audiences want to connect to the music, not just read about it. The dramatic shift that I believe is taking place is moving the review away from being about the artist and towards about the experience the artist has created.
The star of the review is no longer the band, but the audience as voiced by the writer. The goal of the writer used to be to melt into the background and let the band be heard. Objectivity was a characteristic to be aspired towards. The idea of the writer as passive communicator no longer has a major place in the all-at-once culture of engagement that we live in. More and more, the writing I see is coming to reflect this truth. The writer, no matter how much he or she tries, is a subjective creature. This is not a liability. The experience had by the audience is, in my opinion, the single most interesting thing about music today.
Director Jean Luc-Goddard supposedly once said the only way to review a movie is to make a movie. To me, this is a near perfect description of that the type of writing that will move the review to its next level. The review itself is an act of creation. A review can exist nearly independent of the original material. It can be a story unto itself that uses its source material as a beginning step into a labyrinth of unbridled creativity. A review can mark a unique moment in time, the moment when the artist meets the audience. Inspiration transfers from musician to writer and a new world is created. This world would not exist without the musician but it has transcended the original idea and morphed into something beyond its original intent. When the writer simply describes, it short-changes the audience of the revelatory power of the music. What has the music awakened within you? What did you see? What did you find? What did it genuinely make you feel? Instead of a medium that narrows the experience, a review can be something that becomes more than what was originally intended expanding exponentially through each person it comes into contact with.
In order to achieve this the writer must shun the formula and go beyond. The review need not be constricted by anything, even words. It can be photography, painting, sculpture, and maybe even more music. It must be an original statement of experience. A confession. That is its only qualification. It may present itself in a form that may be at times incoherent, but sometimes visions are not easily explained or understood.
The label often placed upon this type of creation is self-indulgent. There is an unwritten rule that good writing must purge the self as much as possible and fit neatly the pantheon of writing that came before it. What that really means is that in order to truly create we must forget who we are. This is insane. The unedited self, allowed breaking free of the artificial covenants that chain it to the floor, is capable of bringing a new vitality to a stilted form of expression. Imagine six billion selves illuminated, simultaneously witnessed and witnessing, all expressing unique shades of humanity and learning in fullness what it is like to human from every possible angle. This is what music reviewing can be.
Borne Back Ceaselessly Into The Past: A Psychological Review Of Gentlemans Pistols “At Her Majesty’s Pleasure”
Posted by Keith Spillett in Pointless Music Reviews on June 20, 2011
I wish I could go back to 1972, listen to Gentlemans Pistols new record “At Her Majesties Pleasure” in the era it was meant to be recorded and stab Richard Nixon’s Chief of Staff H.R. “Bob” Haldeman in the skull with an ice pick. Okay, maybe not the last part. Haldeman wasn’t such a bad guy. He rocked that weird flat top hairdo that became the style in mid-90s rap music and became the best chemist Lompoc Federal Prison ever saw. He would have dug the new Gentlemans Pistols record for it’s pure grit and bile-ridden effluence. He was as malevolent a man as ever walked the earth. Supposedly, he tried to have Jim Nabors killed because he wouldn’t play Julie Nixon’s wedding. I heard that once from a guy in a sauna in Davenport, Iowa.
Gentlemans Pistols is a collection of outstanding British musicians including Mr. William Steer, who gave my life meaning by writing riffs for Carcass that would have made Ed Gein recite Walt Whitman poems to a crowd of smiling 3rd graders. Steer hasn’t lost a step. The riffs that he and James Atkinson put on this album are pure roll around-in-the-gutter filth. They buckle your knees like a 3-2 curveball and do not ask for your permission to continue.
Backwards in time to another place. Transported to all that was seedy and repugnantly gorgeous about 70’s bar room rock’n’roll. You are in a pool hall swilling cheap, half-flat beer being stared down by two menacing looking Hell’s Angels. Not the modern Sons of Anarchy watching yuppies who go cycling between trading soybean futures, but the old school Sonny Barger led head-mangling, spleen eater types. “Midnight Crawler” bellows in the background and you are completely there. Everything is in its place.
At some point the whole retrofitted 1970s rock thing is going to get old. The formula is, in fact, criminally simple. However, put in the hands of poets like these a 3-minute-song can feel like a shimmering vacation into the dark heart of all that is ugly and cruel. Something in their tone screams for your undying allegiance. You would crawl through glass just to hear “Into The Haze” once more. They are on the mainline, hooked into the Universal Generator and driving ceaselessly into the storm. This is the purpose for which rock’n’roll was intended. Not to be background music in the local Target or to be recited soullessly by an army of never-ending American Idol contestants, but to remind us of what visceral chaos lives just below the surface of our pristine, orderly world.
Bob Haldeman Would Have Understood
The Tyranny of Tradition 