Rock Scientist

WTF?!?! Classics: Videodrome

2008-04-21T08:46:00.000-07:00

One of the things that make David Cronenberg a great writer/director is that no matter how whacked-out his premises are, they come from a place of uncomfortable truth.

The director known for pioneering the “body-horror” subgenre frequently constructs his visceral nightmares as allegories for all-to-human anxieties, from disease and decay to familial conflict and divorce.

When he made Videodrome, Cronenberg was in between his creative breakthrough and his commercial one. He had recently made The Brood, which, in addition to being his most mature and sophisticated horror effort to date, drew on personal pain of the director’s own divorce. It balanced expert technical direction, genuine emotion, and pure terror. A few years after Videodrome, Cronenberg would again bring together his blend of human drama and inhuman mutation with The Fly, one of his few big budget studio films. The blend of creatively grotesque imagery (rendered with state of the art, Oscar-winning makeup effects) and personal tragedy made it a hit.

In the arc of Cronenberg’s career, Videodrome represents a point where the director was moving out of his 70’s horror phase (Shivers, Rabid, culminating with The Brood) and into a decidedly more sci-fi arena. Scanners, the first film of this streak is long on ideas and effects but unfortunately short, for the most part on good performances, with the exception Michael Ironside’s enjoyably campy Darryl Revok. Videodrome is in some ways similarly scattered, as it deals, like Scanners, with a far-reaching government conspiracy. But its occasionally convoluted plot is carried well by some brilliantly realized effects, smart sci-fi concepts and great performances. Videodrome represents the point where Cronenberg hit his stride with humanistic, character driven sci-fi. For a series of films, Cronenberg had arguably the best streak of his career, with each outing (Videodrome, The Dead Zone, The Fly, Dead Ringers – despite the latter being more of a skewed psychodrama) sporting a stellar leading man, an ever-deepening grasp on emotion, and an inventive, well-realized fantastical concept.

When writing Videodrome, Cronenberg began with images rather than a plot (breathing TVs and cassettes, stomach vulvas, weaponry fused with flesh, decidedly proto-cyberpunk stuff), and they frame an often tangled storyline. But James Woods does a fantastic job pulling it all together as Max Renn, a likeable sleaze who runs a pirate TV station. He becomes intrigued by what appears to be another pirate broadcast called Videodrome, which shows nothing but extreme violence and torture. But the more he finds out, the more sinister Videodrome appears to be, before it is revealed to be a tool used to destroy the elements in society that would be drawn to such programming in the first place, elements that are weakening and “rotting” society from the inside out.

Cronenberg had long been taken to task for the extreme violence in his films, and Videodrome seems to be his way of exploring what the different reactions and attitudes towards televised violence mean. The powers that be see that society is drawn to the thrill of experiencing such violence through television. The film reflects the real world’s attitudes toward the issue, as Max appears early in the film on a panel show to defend the filth he sells for a living. But Cronenberg envisions a world where those in control use that fascination with violence to control and “purify” the population, with the end result being international supremacy.

It’s a disturbing concept, and more so because of its grounding in reality, where media is constantly used as a means of influencing, even controlling the population. Marketing research draws on sociology and psychology to design advertising with a subconscious as well as literal appeal. It depends on how paranoid you are, but it’s not difficult to find examples of the public being “programmed” in everyday life. The genius of Videodrome is the marriage of that concept with the film’s brilliantly rendered alternate universe. As one character says, “the TV screen is the retina of the mind’s eye . . . therefore TV is reality, and reality is less than TV.” As Max suffers from increasingly tangible hallucinations, he begins to realize just how true this is. The film is actually one of Cronenberg’s less personal in its focus, but it does not fail to endear us enough to Max that his is a believable and sympathetic guide for such a surreal adventure. Or, as he gingerly probes his breathing, freshly opened stomach vulva with the barrel of his gun, you think “yep, that’s pretty much how I would react”

Videodrome is one of the best-known and best-loved films of David Cronenberg’s career, and for good reason. It requires a couple viewings to assimilate all of the themes and mythology, but its sensibility and appeal practically defines the term “cult film.” It may not be his greatest work (I vote Dead Ringers – sadly absent from most video stores, try Netflix) or his most accessible (definitely The Fly) but it’s one of his most crazily inspired. Just remember, don’t sit too close. It gives you cancer.

In Spite of Itself: The Cinematic Genius of Purple Rain

2008-02-13T03:15:00.000-08:00

Some of my favorite movies teeter on a line between genius and absurdity. Purple Rain practically embodies this concept. A anemically-plotted vanity project in honor of the alien superentity formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson, Purple Rain is loaded with hokey dialogue, wild improbabilities, and a bafflingly erratic tone. Leaping from melodramatic to goofy to preachy at a moment's notice, it's a rollercoaster ride of what-the-fuck moments. One of the best of these finds Prince (portraying his cinematic alter-ego "The Kid") storming into his house to locate and confront his wife-beating father, shouting "Where are you? Where are you motherfucker?" and executing a flawlessly smooth spin, complete with delayed headsnap.

And yet . . . and yet. In spite of itself, Purple Rain is one of the most outlandishly enjoyable movies ever conceived. That is thanks most obviously to the utter musical genius of Prince, who, at the absolute peak of his powers, conceived a streamlined, polished collection of songs that were all the best things about pop music in one package. And that music is employed perfectly; Purple Rain's script may have been slapdash, but Albert Magnoli's music video direction skills ensure that each song is employed to maximum effect, either accompanying and illuminating the (admittedly meager) story, or most wonderfully, in performance.

One of the film's most absurd conceits is that somehow, at the Minneapolis club where the Kid and the Revolution sweat it out night after night, The Revolution is the least popular act, and in danger of losing their gig. Apparently the Kid "plays a lot of shit that no one wants to hear." The real draws are the dude who sings the "I want to be a mountaineer!" song, and of course, Morris Day and the Time. In actuality, and in the viewer's eyes, Prince (sorry, "The Kid") smokes them nightly.

But that wouldn't fit with the angsty storyline: the Kid has a rotten homelife. His father's a drunk, a failed songwriter, and on top of all that, he's too bold, whereas his mother is never satisfied. Morris Day plays the malevolent and preening rival for club supremacy, and for the affections of the lovely Apollonia, who wants to be a star, and seems willing not only to get naked and jump in a lake, but also to perform in lingerie singing about how she's a "Sex Shooter." Clearly those qualities go hand in hand.

But all of these bizarre elements somehow fall into place when Prince takes the stage, or at least cease to matter. His performances ("The Beautiful Ones," "Darling Nikki," and the ecstatic encore in particular), are a mesmerizing barrage of twirls, splits, yelps, croons, squeals, guitar solos, choreographed dance routines, emotional breakdowns, and stage humping. Prince is a total presence, a force of nature, completely engaged and committed, seeming to invest every ounce of himself and his outsized person into the playing, singing, and movement. It's ironic that Prince is such a laughable actor off the stage, because he sells these songs with a depth of emotion that makes it seem like you really are in a nightclub, hearing each one for the first time. The shot of him lying on his back on the stage, shrieking the last few pleas of "The Beautiful Ones" as hands reach out to touch him is the most quintessential of the film.

For all its goofball twists and turns, Purple Rain actually succeeds on an emotional level, if only when the music's playing. We may not believe the Kid's familial agony, but when he launches into the title song, the most soulful and towering power ballad ever penned, dedicating it to his troubled father, somehow all that drama is a lot easier to buy. Through the power of the music, all the bizarro comedy and idiosyncrasies becoming endearing, rather than distracting from the film's genuinely successful elements. Purple Rain could have just been an extended music video but the slick production's wacky energy and enthusiasm kicks it up a notch. Dated? Yes. But it's a hell of a fun movie, and what's more timeless than fun?

(Ed. - It has come to my attention following my writing of this article that the above "mountaineer" song is in fact "Modernaire" sung by Prince's former guitarist Dez Dickerson. I, however, chose to keep it as "mountaineer" in the article, both because it's funnier, and because I was misinformed for so long that it will always be "mountaineer" to me.)

Black Mountain - In the Future

2008-02-09T02:29:00.000-08:00

The bottom line for any explicit throwback act is this; is there more in the end than the sum of the band’s influences? For some (think, gee, I dunno, Jet, Wolfmother, any cut-and-paste retro rock outfit) the answer is, regrettably, no. But then there are bands like the Black Lips, obviously indebted to a specific time period and style (trashy, sub-Nuggets 60’s garage rock) but rising above through their personal flair and idiosyncrasies.

Black Mountain may tread more of a grey area. “Don’t Run Our Hearts Around,” from their eponymous 2005 debut, was a pummeling Sabbath-style riff fest, and the whole album rocked to a 70’s vibe. That vibe permeates In the Future as well, and the music itself has gone closer to the source. The opening rumble of “Stormy High” may give some a tentative feeling, but when the guitars kick up into the vocal sections, Stephen McBean and Amber Webber’s harmonies dispel any doubts. Their mystical, creaking voices wrap strong, direct melodies around the riffage, elevating it above slavish imitation.

In fact, many of the most striking moments on In the Future don’t come from the guitars. The rhythm section shows its versatility on “Wucan,” reminiscent of the debut’s narcotic funk-a-thon “Druganaut.” A major standout, “Wucan” also features great vocal interplay from Weber and McBean, a guitar line that’s evocative without being derivative, and epic contributions by what sounds like an army of vintage synthesizers. The keyboard factor is a plus throughout the album, injecting a trippy, proggy element that spices up the formula. The big climax of slow-burner “Angels” comes from a massive-sounding Mellotron, certainly not the only point at which early King Crimson is a clear touchstone. Amber Webber’s showcase “Night Walks” closes the album with another reminder of how well the group creates beautiful sounds, as her voice mingles with static vibrating synths and a bed of echo.

The necessary folky comedown numbers work well, sold by some lovely, well-sung melodies. The ballads are well-placed to contrast with the epic rockers, of which “Tyrants” is the first. The slow, melodic sections actually work better than the rockouts, which are satisfying but predictable.

The ultimate test of the album is its longest track, “Bright Lights,” which clocks in at sixteen plus. But what could have been bloated and unconvincing actually works, because it’s stuffed with such a wealth of musical ideas. It is here that all the handpicked elements of their psychedelic influences come together. The guitars move and dive like rollercoasters, the organ stabs, Amber Webber’s Grace Slick vocals weave in and out, riding the riffs. The druggy mumbo-jumbo of the “bright light/light bright” repetitions may test your patience, but give it time; after an intense, steamrolling rock section, the song is pared down to a ghost of itself, complete with funereal organ and wraithlike synths, before slowly building to a roar again.

In the Future succeeds because it isn’t overshadowed by its influences, even if it can’t entirely escape them. But they’re well beyond imitators, and at no point will you think “gee, I could just be listening to . . .” because Black Mountain pumps fresh blood into vintage sounds. The monolithic guitars and cosmic synthesizers sounds just as good filling a room as on big Dazed and Confused headphones, with the voices of Stephen McBean and Amber Webber keeping it organic, human, and most of all rocking, all the way to the end.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan - The Best Movie Ever, Maybe

2008-01-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

I had a friend in college who came to the conclusion that Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan was the best movie ever made. This happened over time. He didn't reach the conclusion lightly. In fact, he hadn't seen the thing until we watched it one very drunk night, just on the verge of total disillusionment with freshman parties. Over the next summer, he claimed, he spent a period of months with a routine of heavy beer consumption and nightly viewings of The Wrath of Khan.
I should maybe add that my friend is an engineer, which seems to have some bearing. I don't want to reduce him to a creepy, Shatner-obsessed alcoholic. Not that he isn't.
Anyway, as we watched again, some years after our initial viewing, I had to admit he had a pretty strong argument. This movie has everything, I realized. Action, comedy, drama, romance, a quasi-Shakespearean villain, bagpipes, mind-control earwigs, epic space battles, and most of all a whole lotta Shatner.
Granted, it helps if you like some camp with your sci-fi. But lord, if you do, you're sure to treasure moments like the Shat-man's famous "KHAAAAAN!" holler, 0r Khan's last retort of "From hell's heart, I stab at thee!"
But it's not all yucks, and I'm not proposing my buddy's theory as some wink-wink hipster joke. There's a real heart to STII:TWOK, and as we watched it that night, I damn near came to tears over the famous last scene between William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy. It's been referenced to death, but I won't spoil it. Suffice to say it is profoundly moving in a way that not very many movies like it can achieve, and it certainly beats anything else in the Star Trek film canon.
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is just an old-fashioned escape film. It's all about adventure and heroism, and and the large-than-life personas of Shatner and Ricardo Montalban as the wrathful Khan suit the larger-than-life-themes. And it's a hell of a lot more movie than you get with a lot of more serious fare. Maybe it is the best ever made; it just depends on your mood.

Jack vs. Blogs Pt. 1 - The Bittersweet Taste of Irony

2008-01-28T09:43:00.000-08:00

What is happening to me?

How did I get here? I am facing the abyss, and the abyss has a terrible, terrible name, a word I never thought I would be the type of person to say.

Blogosphere.

It sounds, phonetically, like vomit. But to explain my state of mind, I have to explain myself. I am trying to be a music writer. Once they were a rare breed, at least in terms of popular music. And sure, that sounds elitist. I appreciate the fact that the internet gives everyone an opinion, because everyone is entitled to one, but the sad fact is that there is a miniscule number of people out there who will ever have an opinion about music and articulate it as creatively, intelligently, and readably as Lester Bangs or Greil Marcus. These and others were the voices it took to elevate music writing from blurbs and PR to a section in Barnes and fucking Nobles.

I came too late to this party, it seems. Long form music criticism is looking terminally out of vogue. British mags like Mojo still feature extended, somewhat literary-minded pieces on various artists, but these are increasingly unnecessary gushings over seminal artists who’ve already inspired enough ink to fill an encyclopedia. Velvets, Joy Division, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles. Old masters for old readers.

The youth writes online, but all too often the deluge of options, information, and the sheer volume of music being put out results in flash-in-the-pan hype and hypocritical backlashes, infighting and elitism. Ironically, the freedom granted by the internet has flip-flopped the elitism of print music journalism. What was once a semi-exclusive club with pay and perks is now a free-for-all, with so many voices clamoring for attention, it’s almost necessary get attention through snarkiness that too often crosses over into cattiness.

Because I want to stay current, I find reading music blogs to be necessary. And before I come off like a curmudgeonly Luddite (if I haven’t already), let me say that there is a lot of quality writing on the internet right now that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. I just feel that it has impacted some fields negatively, such as arts criticism and criticism in general. I’m not a Luddite, I’m just a broke writer wondering if I’m ever going to be able to make a living doing what I love to do.

But lately I find myself disagreeing with so much of what is being pushed out there. Examples? You betcha.

The National: Will someone please tell me what about this band is actually good? And before anyone counters with “give them a chance,” I'll have you know I have listened to both Alligator and Boxer, and have seen the band live. After all of this effort to like them, because the mighty blogosphere commanded it thus, I still think the National sounds like Coldplay covering Joy Divison. As a friend of mine put it, “It’s like a really boring version of good music.”

Cloverfield hype/Cloverfield backlash: First the internet was buzzing with rumors about producer J.J. Abrams’ real time, handheld mysterious Manhattan monster mash, with one rumor even generating the ludicrous theory that the monster was, in fact, a lion, due to some dumbass mishearing the line: “I saw it! It’s A-LIVE! It’s huge!” But once the movie actually came out a great deal of people seemed to be devoting a great deal of unnecessary energy into hating on a totally decent - if not mind-blowingly magnificent - sci-fi horror movie. Perhaps the genre element caused a lot of angry nerds to come out of the woodwork, but I find a lot of the e-bitching to be totally ridiculous. I saw the movie, and enjoyed it, and yes, suspension of disbelief was required, as is always required when dealing with Godzilla, Rodin, Mothra, Megalon, Mecha-Godzilla, Ghidra, Gamera, or the Blair Witch. I’ll also go on the record as saying that I felt no urge to vomit due to the shaky-cam, and that it sounds like a lot of people out there have their own personal gastric problems to attend to.

Vampire Weekend: ATTENTION ALL YOUNG AMERICAN BANDS: STOP PRETENDING TO BE BRITISH. IT IS NOT WORKING. THAT IS ALL.

This is but a helping of my recent blog-resentment. I intend this feature to be a running commentary on my search for writing work, as well as on the online music climate. Or, for lack of a better word, scene. Oy.

End of the Line at Duke University, August 2007

2007-11-28T02:14:00.000-08:00

The horde has descended. Hundreds of freshmen now crowd the halls of Duke’s East Campus dorms and by some stroke of cosmic weirdness I found myself among them, awash in Natty Light and listening to Dre’s “Let Me Ride,” semi-audible above the din.

I write this facing the reality of leaving school indefinitely. We never gelled, me and Dear old Duke, so I’m high-tailing it to the city to try clawing my way into this terrifying writing business for real.

At the party. This is where the flashbacks come mile a minute, let me tell you. I remember this walk I’m pulling off now, the freshman sideways shuffle. It’s an off-campus party, in the relatively spacious, actually extremely spacious high-ceilinged Erwin Square apartment building, and yet inside the apartment, where seniors and freshmen mixed in a pulsating surge that ran both ways, mutating and shifting, the claustrophobia is reminiscent of some of the worst nights fall semester back in the day waaaaaaay back in ought four, remember? Crammed into Few Quad hallways, my belly squeezing embarrassingly past the foxy ladies as I struggled to wind up in a room where I’d be given beer, shitty beer.

The same bleak realizations may hit a few of these revelers weeks down the line, but not too many, I’d reckon. A surprising amount stick with it long enough to smooch up the ass ladder of fraternal brotherhood and eventually reap the rewards when they sit as kings, watching freshmen fill their rooms and halls, demanding shitty beer.

Having existed at Duke as something of a fringe element, I throw people off at parties like this. They’ve never seen me, or rarely, and a blonde senior girl pops up in front of me with a “hi my name’s Suzy what’s your name,” seemingly having mistaken me for a freshman or a kindergartener.

I explain the situation. She says, yeah, you looked old for 18.

True.

Inevitable that these sights and sounds provoke intense reflection on three years of collegiate mishaps, but all is not dour.

Parked by the keg is a short solid bro with a hat that reads REMINGTON, holding court with a couple of new arrivals. It is one of those totally rare moments where one registers genuine surprise at the fact that the words being said aren’t out of some third tier collegiate virginity-loss caper currently being pounded out of the iBook of some sweaty, desperate Los Angelean:

“DUDE, YOU’RE IN COLLEGE NOW!! YOU’RE GONNA GET LAID! IT’S GONNA HAPPEN!”

“I know, man! My RA said to come to him if we need condoms!”

“Yeah! Yeah man. Totally. It’s like, you can get condoms everywhere, the vending machines, the health center, everywhere.”

The sound of the room is thick and fluttering and I’m unable to keep up with all of it.

“You’re not in high school, bro, you don’t have to go home and do your homework with your mom, man. You wanna go get fucked up you go get fucked up, but you gotta work hard too man, this is Duke. . .”

Indeed, this is Duke. My own fucked-upedness is getting the better of me and I can’t hear much of the rest, apparently Remington’s laying some career advice upon his newfound bro . . .

money isn’t everything you gotta live life man I’m gonna retire ten million, that’s my limit, you know bro, dude breh bra brobrobrehbreuxbro

In the hall I encounter a truly wet freshie named Joe who reminds me he’s the cousin of this dude from my freshman dorm. He’s telling me about when he visited, back in oh fo’ (fo’ sho) and got shithammered in Alspaugh. Sounds about right, I say. He tells me he remembers me playing the guitar, and that he plays too now. He says he remembers me more than almost anything from that visit. He is very drunk. I give him a Parliament and he lights the wrong end.

Outside, smoking and talking to M---- M---- a truly indestructible party monster with an uncanny knack for school, memorization, and all around academics. It never seemed fair, and neither did his “Wolverine-like powers of recuperation,” to quote a popular description, but you couldn’t hold it against the guy, not even with the country club name to end them all, cause he had a big melon grin and loved beer and football and weed, and loved to have fun and ensure that others were entertained as well.

I knock on the door trying to get back in the bay of apartments. It doesn’t open on the outside. Somebody notices when a girl comes up and knocks and he toys with her for a second, a drunken jackal, fucking with her until he finally shoves the door open, smacking her in the forehead with a dull thump. The gaggle of folks nearby dissolves into giggles and amazingly, the only “holy shit, are you all right?” comes from me. Then they see her tears and the way she’s holding her hands over her face and there’s much commotion. I slip inside and wait for an opportunity to leave. It’s all a bit much right now.

Right place, wrong time. Outside I hear it: “Man I love college.”A wet freshman still buying the essential myths. But on my end, faith broken down, smoking a lonely cigarette in front of the bays next to the cars and spent cans of Natty Light dotting the bushes like fantasy gumdrops. Reeling, rocking, gut protesting rumbling but ok, muted by sweet smoke and light beer (have another, along for the ride now, it’s late and this scene has been building for hours)

They’re mostly leaving now and I’m talking to some remaining friends, good ones that I haven’t seen in awhile, and that I’ll be bailing on before too long. Inside awhile for smoking and scribbling and then slowly creeping towards the act of going home.

Waiting for my ride to finish his phone call in a spacious Erwin bay, seemingly deserted now. Losing it a bit swaying a tad but I’ve found an ally, somebody to lean on. Me and the wall, we’re ok.

Positive Jamming in Chicago

2007-11-05T13:02:00.000-08:00

The Hold Steady - Metro, 10/30/07
Chicago, IL

Some nights you really need a dose of rock romanticism. There’s no way around it; shit has gotten rough, inside or out, and you need power chords and the rants of a crackpot cockeyed optimist to help you through.
It happened that Tuesday was one of those nights, and it happened that the show I was seeing would be my first since moving to Chicago. And after working and commuting to the Metro, it happened that a few Pabst tall cans were needed to get into Hold Steady mode. “Bar Band” being after all the most beat-to-death descriptor of the band in question, I felt I’d do their live show an injustice if I wasn’t a little soused. No doubt they would be.
My buddy arrived at the Full Shilling Pub with our scalped (craigslist!) tickets with time to spare. Once Hold Steady mode was… holding steady, we made our way inside, and jockeyed a very respectable pit standing. The band ambled on stage maybe two minutes later, beers in hand, and opened with “Party Pit.”
The ratio of Hold Steady songs with shoutalong parts to Hold Steady songs without shoutalong parts it pretty one-sided. This makes for a wonderful, cynicism-destroying concert experience.
The music was tight and loud. The keyboards lost a bit of their authority to the overdriven guitars, but the sound was exciting and anthemic, more Cheap Trick than E Street Band. If the Hold Steady have a major flaw, it’s the relative predictability of their classic rock-indebted song structures. But as a flaw it’s debatable, or even delectable, given the satisfaction delivered by such a familiar, greasy taste. Who doesn’t love meat and cheese?
The unique aspect of the Hold Steady is Craig Finn, and his motor-mouthed, Boss-flavored storytelling. His verbosity can be polarizing (a woman at the Full Shilling was claiming she preferred the “Whoa-oh-oh-oh”s in “Chips Ahoy” to any of Craig Finn’s actual lyrics), but live it’s less of an issue, simply because it’s impossible to catch every breathless phrase. But good bits came through, even if it was only glib couplets like “it started in the vestibule and ended in the hospital.”
You couldn’t ask for a more generous and gregarious frontman. His rapport with the crowd was easy and sincere, and he never shook his slight air of ‘aw shucks’ disbelief at his popularity. It was that disarming spirit that informed the entire event, and it makes the Hold Steady more than the sum of their parts. You knew that he cared about what he sang about, and that when he sang “certain songs are scratched into our souls,” he couldn’t believe his luck that, for many watching, some of those will be his.
I got what I came for and left happy. But craving a cheeseburger.

Jennifer Herrema of RTX: Down with Democracy

2007-05-23T07:16:00.000-07:00

Jennifer Herrema doesn't think too much about the expectations that inevitably follow RTX, the Royal Trux offshoot she formed four years ago without her former partner of 13 years, Neil Hagerty. There's no goal in mind and certainly no ulterior motive. It wasn't even a decision, she says.

"I'm still myself. There's no conscious or super-conscious effort to take on some kind of put-on genre," says Herrema. "Royal Trux was a phenomenal way of working, but it was like big government. Major checks and balances both ways. I wanted to move a little bit more fluidly."

RTX has afforded her that freedom, but it didn't come easy. The band's 2004 Drag City debut, Transmaniacon, was recorded by only Herrema, her second guitarist and an engineer. Something was lost in trying to replicate the record's sound on a subsequent 35-show tour; Herrema felt frustrated and disappointed.

"[It was just] playing the songs. There weren't enough liberties taken," she says. The length of the tour added to the dissatisfaction, and Herrema overhauled the band before taking RTX to Europe, scrapping two members, hiring a new drummer and moving her guitar player to bass. It clicked. She says, simply, "It was a lot more fun."

On this year's Western Xterminator, their second album, the band is newly functioning as a collaborative unit, and it shows: Xterminator is a focused chunk of deeply fucked-with classic rock, reminiscent of Royal Trux's most sonically dense and hooky late records but with a sensibility that is Herrema's alone. And this tour seems up to the task of bringing ferocious, spontaneous performances of the album's monstrous tunes.

"Tonight's gonna be our eighth show, and I'm the happiest I've ever been," Herrema declares. And she's dealing with her band politics in admirable fashion this time around. "Any good band could never possibly be a democracy. But there's nothing like sharing common ground and respecting it and letting it breathe."

Rock v. Art Rock

2007-04-26T19:08:00.000-07:00

TV on the Radio – Cat’s Cradle, 4/15/07
Carrboro, NC

It rained buckets on Sunday, which no doubt contributed to the giddy atmosphere building in anticipation of TV on the Radio’s set at Cat’s Cradle. As the familiar, mural-adorned room began to fill with kids of all stripes – skirted and booted hipster gals, UNC students, bespectacled males who all vaguely resembled TVOTR producer and guitarist

Dave Sitek – London’s Noisettes played a pummeling set of baroque punkabilly, surprising the early crowd with their exuberance. Frontwoman Shingai Shoniwa sang acrobatic melodies with snotty ferocity, and the music’s meaty grooves kept up impressively.

With the crowd warmed up and the exodus to the smoking patio restructuring the floor somewhat, I secured a reasonably close, not-too-off-center spot and waited. At exactly 10:00, Kyp Malone’s hair became visible in the booth, and TV on the Radio began to take the stage. Enough ink has probably been spent on Mr. Malone’s ‘fro and beard, so I will only say that in person, it is quite majestic. Lights were cued, an electronic drone swelled in the speakers. Kyp spoke into the microphone, asking in a surprisingly high, meek voice, for the soundman to turn up his guitar a little. Drummer Jaleel Bunton started in on a shuffle, as Tunde Adebimpe shook sleighbells into his mic. The guitars came in, and Adebimpe began “Young Liars.” The hypnotic mix of the rolling tempo, atmospheric guitar noise, and cymbal crashes reached an overwhelming peak, which was pulled back with expert finesse before the band tore into a frenetic, stripped down reading of “The Wrong Way.” Where the version on Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes bounded along on a synthetic bass rumble and saxophone honks, this incarnation was all backbeat and crunching rhythm guitar. As always, Kyp Malone’s Gibson Les Paul provided the musculature of the song, on point at all times, while Dave Sitek’s Telecaster churned out sheets of effects-drenched atmosphere and shredded melodic lines.

Adebimpe’s energy as a frontman was astonishing, and he seemed to have struck an improbable balance between chaos and precision: he careened wildly about the stage, but his free hand’s gestures were sharp and committed and he never missed a lyric, even when out of breath. The vocals were impressive throughout the set. In the best moments, the twinning of Adebimpe’s strong lead with Kyp Malone’s falsetto was hair-raising.

As “The Wrong Way” was a different song without its studio production elements, “Dreams” was similarly stripped of its more synthetic qualities and given the rock treatment. It took a little time to adjust to this different side of the band, but when the wall-o’-guitars hit hard and Tunde hit the fantastic line “Leave your treadmill power trip behind,” I was sold.

TV on the Radio is difficult to pin down into a genre classification, but “art rock” might be the most accurate term, not due to any pretentious attitude, but rather cerebral sensibilities and dense sonics. Their records are constructed and arranged with infinite creativity and intuitive experimentalism. Live, these production qualities are not so much lost in translation as set aside, as the band tears its songs apart with visceral attack and boundless enthusiasm. This is still art rock – the art isn’t in the audio trappings, it’s in the songwriting and the vision of the band members.

After a brief conversation with the audience in which he confessed to being “a little” inebriated, and asked whether Cat’s Cradle was technically in Chapel Hill or “Carlsboro,” Adebimpe proceeded to go apeshit on a juiced-up run through “Wolf Like Me.” This was the only song that absolutely everybody seemed to know, and given its clever video’s MTV2 and YouTube exposure, that’s not surprising. But popular doesn’t mean bad, and if TV on the Radio have gotten sick of playing “Wolf” on late night, it doesn’t show.

The set’s latter half offered some sonic variety as bassist Gerard Butler manned a deck of synths and constructed oceans of echo and ghostly harmonies around some of the spacier numbers from Return to Cookie Mountain, with the controlled din accentuating “Dirtywhirl” in particular.

The set ended almost precisely on the hour, and an encore followed about ten minutes later, with the after-partying Noisettes taking the stage to join in on hand percussion. As Adebimpe and company skipped through the playful “A Method,” the drum circle mentality made perfect sense, and seemed to symbolize the something wonderfully right about the experience of watching a group of musicians in a hot, cramped room full of strangers.

They closed it all with “Staring at the Sun,” playing one of their most quintessential tunes at breakneck pace, sloppy, dirty, and saturated with distortion. Early in the set, it would have felt cheap, but at that moment it felt perfect.

Phenomenizzle

2007-04-13T19:27:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, more often than not when watching VH1, I reflect on what has become a recurring quandary for me, and that quandary is the man history will remember as Snoop.

Before I begin to make any comments about Mr. Dogg that could be even remotely construed as negative, let me first say he is one of the most likeable personalities in the history of rap music. Since his near instantaneous rise to national stardom in the early ’90s as the featured guest MC on Dr. Dre’s inescapable gansta monolith The Chronic, Snoop Dogg has been famous. Not just famous. Really really really fucking famous, like Kansas soccer moms know who you are famous. And that fame is due in large part to his charisma, humor, and general way that he very pleasantly did not give a fuck. He was (is) just one cool motherfucker. But it’s pretty damned important not to forget a critical element here: Snoop Dogg’s flow. All of the above characteristics came through in that lazy, stoned-ass drawl. His best performances, like “Tha Shiznit,” take their time and give incredible attention to individual syllables, and have a narrative coherence lacking in the verses of many of his peers. His ability to change up frequently and ride the rhythm in unexpected ways made his verses musical and lilting, and unusually appealing to crossover hip-hop fans who may have initially been alienated by harsher contemporaneous voices such as Ice Cube (sorry to use another West Coast example but it was the first one that came to mind).

But here’s the thing, man. Let’s look at Snoop’s discography. It can be agreed upon that Snoop Dogg has made a few good albums. But he’s only really ever made one truly undeniably great album (that is under his name, The Chronic is a major achievement as well, obviously). Snoop Dogg has also definitely made a few really fucking awful albums, many of which are not just bad but, in hip hop tradition, really really fucking looooong. Now, Doggystyle is about an hour long, but unnecessary length can usually be forgiven in the event that an album kicks ass, which Doggystyle so obviously does. But dig this: Snoop’s first album for No Limit records, Da Game Is to Be Sold Not to Be Told is 79.28. That’s as long as a fucking movie. Even the title’s too long. And it’s filled with slapdash, whateverish productions by Master P and groaning under the weight of too many No Limit guest rappers. No Limit Top Dogg and The Last Meal were improvements, as the Dogg’s production skills continue to develop from his more rudimentary work on The Doggfather. But 2002’s Doggystyle All-Stars, a limp posse album (and obvious contract fulfiller) with minimal contributions by the posse’s ostensible leader, was a step backwards. Luckily some talented production teams were on hand for Paid tha Cost to Be da Bo$$, most notably the Neptunes, who produced the hit single “Beautiful.”

But despite this comeback, it’s guest spots that have been Snoop’s bread and butter in recent years. This seems to be logical, since his career began by guesting on an album, and indeed when Dre’s 1999 follow-up 2001 rolled around, Snoop appeared on the high profile, Grammy-nominated singles “Still D.R.E.” and “The Next Episode,” which are, not surprisingly, among the best tracks on the album. Snoop Dogg was nominated again in 2004 with the Neptunes for “Beautiful” and with Pharrell Williams alone in 2005 for the killer “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Other more unfortunate collaborations include his guest spot on the vomit-inducing Pussycat Dolls hit “Buttons” and his current hit single with Akon, “I Wanna Love You” which is also recommended for those needing to induce regurgitation, either for medical reasons or a modeling career.

But no matter the legal troubles (which have been on and off ever since Snoop’s much publicized acquittal on a murder charge in February 1996) or the occasionally atrocious choice of collaborators, it seems Snoop Dogg will always be with us. Perhaps it’s because the personality he has created over the years is not really human. He is a gun-toting, blunt smoking gangsta cartoon, and so when his arrested for possession of marijuana and firearms, the public response is a resounding “duh.” Its not as though we can hold someone who is essentially a court jester figure in our celebrity pantheon accountable for acting out their shtick in real life. He tells us that he carries guns and smokes weed. That’s pretty much the basis for his career. We aren’t surprised and we aren’t mad.

But it makes you think a little bit. Or me, anyway. Gangsta as a concept has been around so long its not even offensive anymore to anyone under the age of fifty. We are willing to accept that for the most part, Snoop is a harmless figure. But then again, he is carrying a gun (and large quantities of ganj, but one of these things is not like the other, if you know what I mean). And although aside from Jam Master Jay, it’s been awhile since a high-profile murder has shaken the hip-hop community, no one should forget the potential for tragedy in a musical culture still deeply and intrinsically linked to a culture of violence. And that’s not racism or gross generalization, that’s fact.

So what? So nothing, I guess. I will go on loving Snoop Dogg, even though I know he carries a gun, because he smokes a lot of weed, he’s funny, he says izzle a lot, and he made Doggystyle.

Snoop has worked that fly gangsta shit so long and so over the top that it’s been forever since it felt like anything but a fantasy. Maybe because of things in his life that I don’t understand and never will, he has to arm himself. I don’t expect him to be a role model. His whole persona is that of the unrepentant rascal, and I wouldn’t want him to change that for the world, because its cool and it’s what makes him so much fun to listen to.

But the threat of cartoon violence turning real spoils the fantasy somewhat. Like any thinking white liberal dude who digs rap music, there’s always this back-of-the-mind worry about the IMPLICATIONS. Is the music I enjoy socially irresponsible? Some of it, yeah. Is it still worth listening to? Definitely.

Snoop Dogg is the man. His legacy is safe, and he’s pretty much impervious to any criticism. And that’s ok with me.

I’d just feel more comfortable knowing that gun was full of blanks.

T. Rex- The Slider

2007-04-11T05:46:00.000-07:00

The recent Rhino reissue campaign and Quentin Tarantino’s sly deployment of “Jeepster” in Death Proof could spark a criminally belated T. Rex revival in the states. That is, if there’s an ounce of rock and roll karma in this world, which one hopes to Christ there is. The illegitimate spawn of T. Rex’s dirty boogie are scattered all over three decades; at best, these descendents nail the inspired silliness and infectious groovitude, much to their credit. At worst – well, in the words of Mr. Marc Bolan “It’s a rip off, it’s a rip off.”

Well, it sounds cooler when he says it.

Regardless of what could or could not have happened to T. Rex if they had conquered America as well as the U.K., the aforementioned Rhino reissue of the band’s back catalogue does them an amazing service by reminding us all of how incredible the best of Bolan’s work was.

The Slider is the third proper T. Rex’s all-electric albums following the name change from Tyrannosaurus Rex, and a change of direction away from acoustic, drug-fried Renaissance Faire balladry. It represents the continued evolution of the T.Rex sound – string-saturated arrangements replete with falsetto choirs all centered on the thick, fuzzed riffs of Bolan’s incredible rhythm guitar. The Slider’s predecessor, Electric Warrior used similar tactics, but not to such an extent as this. The all-out tidal wave of sonic bliss that is the record’s first 2.29, that is the entirety of “Metal Guru.” Bolan’s sublime kick-off shriek (“whoa-AUGHH-oohh yeeaaah” is a reasonable approximaton) sets the tone of unhinged, decadent fun which runs through each song.

In much the same fashion as “Cosmic Dancer” on Electric Warrior, “Mystic Lady” uses a rolling, narcotic folk groove to contrast the energetic opener, complete with more strings (note to listeners: there’s gonna be a lot of fucking strings on this album, so if you’re not down with that, be forewarned) more backing vocals, and an utterly gorgeous choral fade out.

And this is all just a prelude to the incredible title track, working its magic with a slow bump and grind and indelibly solid drum track, punctuated by egg shakers that sound like coke snorts and incidentally, one of the most melodically brilliant choruses ever devised in the name of glam rock.

U.K. hit “Telegram Sam” (which Bolan claimed to have written in its entirety in his head in an elevator) goes back to basics with a simple choppy guitar figure more than a little reminiscent of “Get It On,” but with great nonsense lyrics about dudes like “Golden Nose Slim,” who knows where you’ve been, and “Jungle Face Jake,” about whom Bolan warns us to make no mistake. But it’s the nutso, cello-accompanied, guitar workout of “Buick Mackane” where he really brings the rock, getting his stomp on and screaming more crazy shit about cars. “Rabbit Fighter” is another highlight, with those omnipresent strings providing a epic backdrop for Bolan’s story of . . . space war, or something.

So if you can cough up for that fancy reissue, by all means do, because it’s loaded with alternate versions and liner notes that will tell you pretty much anything about the recording of this album that you would ever want to know. Regardless, seek it out.

"Some Different Thunder" - Independent Weekly, 2/7/07

2007-04-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

Deerhoof doesn't sound much like any other band you'll hear. Crunchy, mercurial guitar lines bob, weave, clank and chime, prog-rock fashion in tight jeans. Tumbling, thunderous drums turn decidedly funky when you least expect it. And then there's the five-foot tall, Japanese X-factor: Satomi Matazusaki.

This is where most people stop listening, and for good reason: Satomi's high-pitched voice is the most polarizing element of Deerhoof. It's a sound that prompts reviewers to use words like chipmunk, schoolgirl and helium. All Music Guide's Jason Nickey likened the band to "Yoko Ono fronting the White Stripes." You know, because all female Japanese singers are Yoko Ono, and all less-than-thou rock bands are The White Stripes, right? But that's only as inaccurate as it is reductive, essentially ignoring a simple fact: Without Satomi, there would be no Deerhoof. Or, if there was, no one would care.

Sure, Satomi's voice is unexpected, even discombobulating. Lots of people never get over the initial hump her wail presents, and that's excusable. But, as with many polarizing vocalists, the very individual sound of a band's voice is central to that band's aesthetic. Corin Tucker's Viking bellow in Sleater-Kinney articulates that band's righteous fury and muscular feminization of rock. Craig Finn's gnarly speak-sing in The Hold Steady is central to his widescreen nostalgia. Any old rock snob will tell you that having a "good" voice has not mattered since Bob Dylan broke.

Deerhoof is all childlike melodies and surrealistic, sometimes creepy lyrics. From their incisive riffs to their exuberant rhythms, Deerhoof lends a giddy enthusiasm to its surroundings. All of that is expressed with Satomi's every chirp. Were Deerhoof to have a traditional indie rocker—that is, a whiny white male—in the one-spot, they would lack much of their wild originality. Perhaps it would make it easier for Deerhoof to sink into the ocean of short-lived hype bands, and that would make those other whiny indie rockers happy. Let's be thankful that's not the case.

"Cat Power Finds Solace and Soul" - 11/15/06 Duke Chronicle

2007-04-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

Chan Marshall may be a reformed enigma, but she remains an enigma nonetheless.

Innocently alluring and possessed of one of the smokiest, most hypnotic voices in modern music, she has been recording and performing under the Cat Power moniker since 1995. The end of the '90s saw her gaining critical and underground respect for her intriguing and often disquieting albums. Chan-pronounced "Shawn"-also gained notoriety for her erratic live performances.

But with the January release of her seventh album, The Greatest (Matador), things have changed. Her media presence has grown, and in recent interviews with high profile publications she has candidly discussed her depression, performance anxiety and substance abuse.

Now, a newly sober Marshall is breaking new ground. The Greatest has been re-released with new packaging and a new ad campaign, and her tour with the Memphis Rhythm Band comes through Cat's Cradle on Sunday.

The nature of Marshall's fans and the words they so often use to describe her suggest such a change might not be welcome. Duke's own Cat Power group on Facebook, "Cult of Chan," describes her as a "shy, troubled troubadour." Scanning the back archives of Matador Record's message board, words like "timid," "fascinating" and "tortured" come up evey few posts. There is no question that the mystique of Cat Power is deeply important to her devotees.

On stage, she used to be a totemic figure, playing her simple guitar lines with little body movement and intoning her mysterious and sometimes harrowing lyrics in a sweet half-whisper. For many years, this (with or without a minimalist backing band) was the core of her act. Atmosphere did the rest. The silence around the sound of her guitar and voice somehow amplified the intensity of her words and music, and audiences stood rapt.

That intensity came at a dear price for Marshall.

Until recently, her drinking had become heavier and heavier, and she was in the habit of taking Xanax before shows to control her stage fright.

"It was about the uncomfortableness of just being in my own skin," she told the New York Times in September. "And that's why the alcohol was always with me."

In January, weeks before the release of The Greatest, she was admitted to Miami's Mt. Sinai Medical Center, forcing her label to push back tour dates.

The album, although recorded before her breakdown and recovery, sounds hopeful. Stylistically, it's a far cry from hazy, meandering Cat Power classics like "American Flag" or "Cross Bones Style." Marshall has said the record is a return to the soul music she loved as a child: horns, strings and clean guitars carry her voice to beautiful heights.

In light of such a striking new direction, backlash was inevitable. Indie pundits in particular seem worried about the accessibility of her less oblique sound. Amy Phillips, in her review of The Greatest on pitchforkmedia.com even groused that the album "could be battling [Norah Jones'] 'Don't Know Why' for airplay supremacy on Mom's car stereo in the coming months."

Female musicians walk a delicate line. The public expects them either to be glamorous pop stars or demure folkies. As Richie Unterberger noted in his All Music Guide essay "Women In Rock," since the alternative explosion of the early '90s, indie and underground rock has been the most rewarding area for unconventional female artists. But in the end, many careers have suffered at the hands of an audience that doesn't want them to change.

And yet Marshall's fans, including those at Duke, seem to be embracing her personal achievements, even if not everyone agrees on the album.

"I think it's great," said senior Anne Rosenbarger. "Some friends of mine saw her last year and she stopped the show early. I think [her new attitude] will help her a lot."

It's easy to understand the morbid curiosity involved in attending a performance by a notoriously unstable artist: it's spectacle, it's performance art. Many male artists, from Jim Morrison to Kurt Cobain, have suffered and profited from such audience expectations.

Tellingly, Marshall's 2003 album You Are Free opened with "I Don't Blame You," a wistful piano ballad written to and for Cobain, and addressing his turbulent relationship with fame from a personal standpoint.

But Marshall seems to have an important asset on her side: supportive fans.

"I never noticed they really liked me before," she told the Times. Here's hoping she comes onstage smiling Sunday.

Kings of Leon - Because of the Times

2007-04-10T17:33:00.000-07:00

For months prior to the release of Because of the Times, those tricky-dicky Followills had been alluding to a challenging change of direction, and I will concede that kicking the new record off with a 7.10 epic does smack of trying to engineer that “difficult album” mystique. Especially when said epic is as echo-swathed and oh jeez, here we go – atmospheric. But I don’t care what nobody says, because “Knocked Up” is an expertly constructed exercise in dynamic tension, with a strong melody and a surprisingly clear vocal performance from Caleb Followill.

It is true that the difference in sound from the Kings’ two previous albums is the most initially striking thing about Because of the Times. But that difference goes deeper than just the trippier, more spacious production. It’s down to the songs, as well as Matthew Followill’s increased willingness to spice up his (already killer) lead lines with effects pedals and chiming harmonics.

There’s a good deal more stylistic variation here, which makes sense when you look at the progression from Youth and Young Manhood to Aha Shake Heartbreak. But where Kings of Leon’s sophomore release remained rooted in the ‘70s-style Southern rock which had been the group’s foundation from the beginning, Because of the Times sometimes leaves it behind entirely. There are a number of distinctly modern-rockish here, and as you’d expect, the results are mixed. Smartly following “Knocked Up,” “Charmer,” a three minute blast of steady ‘90s bass, gnarly riffs, and Black Francis-esque whoops and shrieks fares well, especially when good old Matthew goes all Joey Santiago on his axe at the end. Thankfully, the moments where the idiosyncratic guitar chug feels like a bit much–and there are a few–are usually softened by clever touches like the ghostly backing vocals in “True Love Way.”

The light skank of “Ragoo” may appeal to some and annoy others, but there’s no denying that it feels a little affected. But at least the lyrics really seem to be pulling their weight this time, and they are assisted by Caleb Followill’s newfound powers of enunciation. He’d always been an affable frontman, and now that he’s managed to keep that appealing raggedness without completely mangling the words, the songs somehow feel a little more complete.

“Fans” and “Black Thumbnail” both do a good job of expanding the band’s sound within the roots-rock idiom, as does “Arizona” of twisting their usual formula for pensive, ballad-style numbers. It’s also worth noting that even when this record loses focus, which it unfortunately does on a few occasions, the playing is top-notch. W should not forget that Kings of Leon has had a superb rhythm section from day one.

The main regret most fans will have regarding Because of the Times is the relative lack of the big choruses that both Youth and Aha had in such abundance. The refrain of “On Call” stands with their very best, but most of these songs are just not as immediate. But don’t despair. Listeners, especially longtime fans, will find much to enjoy if the album is given the scrutiny it deserves. It’s a grower with a big yield.

Rock and Roll Redux

2007-04-10T17:28:00.000-07:00

Age. The eternal rock and roll paradox. The original wave of pioneers has now become what it hated most. As ironic as it has since become, it’s not difficult to see what Pete Townshend meant with his deathless line “Hope I die before I get old.” How do you continue to purvey a brand of art meant to symbolize rebellion when you have been integrated into the establishment and live comfortably, extravagantly off of your glorious millions?

Keep working, it seems, is the consensus. Understandable, really. What the fuck else is Keith Richards (rather obvious reference, I know) going to do with his life? Sell insurance? Drive buses? Those leathery viking warriors soldier on because it’s the only goddamned thing they know how to do, god bless ‘em.

But here’s an essential question to ask: what’s the deal with reunion tours?? There’s been a spate of them lately. The Pixies, Rage, Dinosaur Jr., and that’s just the hip ones. The Police played the Grammy’s for Christ’s sake, which to me perfectly symbolizes the show’s tendency to keep pop music entrenched, celebrating and rehashing the past to the point of ignoring the present and future.

Is it really ever about anything but the money? Who knows? After years and years in the music biz, do these people have any feelings left? I was under the impression that Kim Deal and Black Francis (Frank Black, Charles Thompson III) of the Pixies hated each other’s guts, ditto for Lou Barlow and J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. Now I cannot comment upon the former band’s concert performance post break-up and reunion, but I did see Dinosaur Jr. on the second date of the original lineup’s first tour in sixteen years. J. Mascis looked at little worse for wear, but he, Murph, and Barlow all rocked with a vengeance, and Mascis’s signature guitar noise terrorism left that awesome/annoying post-concert “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” in my head for 24 straight hours. So one could argue that whether or not their reformation was motivated by sweet moolah is fundamentally irrelevant, given the fact that they delivered the goods with such gusto and played with all the fire and brimstone of their early days.

Given the fact that many reunions don’t produce new albums, it could be fair to give some rockers the benefit of the doubt and assume that they genuinely missed playing with their former band mates. And hell, making albums could just be an extension of that. The New York Doll’s first actual album since 1974’s Too Much Too Soon was well received by critics, and expectation for the new Stooges album featuring original fuzz/wah fetishist guitarist Ron Asheton are high.

(READER'S NOTE: I wrote this thing before The Weirdness actually came out, and ironically enough it was almost universally critically lambasted.)

So as lame as the idea of a reunion tour is in the fundamental rock and roll sense, it’s not always a bad thing. The ones that make me uncomfortable are the mega-band reunion tours. It just seems as though they looked at the Rolling Stones, consulted their accountants, and said “I want in.”

Bands that never really cracked the mainstream are much easier to root for. And anyway, who said economics isn’t a valid reason to do anything? If I had a job that cushy to go back to, I don't think I'd have to think about it that hard. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pay my power bill.

Black Sabbath - Paranoid

2007-04-10T17:17:00.000-07:00

I could go on and on about my personal history with Black Sabbath’s Paranoid. I could bury my point in backstory, saying how I was turned on to the album by the guitarist in my first ever band, that our first cover was the title track. I could dredge up the memory of blaring “Iron Man” from my car while stopped in traffic next to cranky geriatrics at Myrtle Beach my senior year of high school.

So what? None of that actually tells you how I feel, personally, about the music. How to get to the point at hand? How can I put in words what this record does to me?

Three specific moments within the grooves of Paranoid tell the story of why I think this album is great. They are as follows:

1. The pull-off guitar lick immediately following the line “In the fields the bodies burning,” in the first verse of “War Pigs.”

The impact of that single guitar lick on my adolescent ears cannot be underestimated. It’s placement within the song illustrates the subtle genius of the band as arrangers that is not always apparent to casual listeners. Black Sabbath’s sound is not terribly subtle, but the implementation of that lick is. It comes right off of the taut, pressure-building verse intro, consisting only of Bill Ward’s ticking hi-hat and Tony Iommi’s thick, two chord punctuations. The entrance of Ozzy’s brash, unpretty, declamatory voice kicks up the tension another notch, and then comes the four-note lick, barreling through the headphones, mixed significantly louder and closer than the rhythm guitar. The muscular trill that follows the next line prolongs the pressure-valve ecstasy, and two lines later the song explodes with massive drums and glorious overdubbed guitar mayhem.

2. The explosive push into the final verse of “Fairies Wear Boots,” and Ozzy’s vocal on its last four lines. Like “Hand of Doom,” the song is structured in evolving movements, mixing in the instrumental “Jack the Stripper.” The relentless back and forth power chords that accompany the verses-of which there are only two-and chorus-which consists essentially of one line-constitute one of the most monstrous riffs on the album. After numerous instrumental breaks and guitar solos, the riff returns, muted, under the chorus, before all hell suddenly breaks loose, and Tony Iommi lets it rip at full blast, a good two or three notches louder than anywhere else in the song. Ozzy delivers the next lines with a gibbering, lunatic ferocity “So I went to the doctor to see what he could give me/he said son, son you’ve gone too far/ ‘cause smokin’ and trippin’ is all that you do,” before ending it all with an apocalyptic YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAH” drowning in echo, resigned to his waste-case fate, utterly justifying the ridiculousness of the lyrics. This climax is the final glorious release in an album full of them, and a perfect example of the genius of a band that knows exactly when to dig in and fire on all cylinders.

3. The one-two, one-two, CRASH entrance of Bill Ward’s drums over the inimitable opening riff of “Iron Man.” There is little I can say about this, except that this moment embodies everything right and wonderful about big, dumb, LOUD rock music. And that’s it folks. That’s all I gotta say.