52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #7

Prong - Cleansing

(Epic, 1993)

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I use the term “party metal”, and nobody ever seems to know what I mean.  I refer to music that has all the hallmarks of heavy metal, meaning it would never be able to infiltrate the mainstream, but has the energy, danceability, and sense of fun that might result in a party getting started, even if only by one lonely guy in his front room.  I’m most often referring to bands like Every Time I Die, their no-holds-barred lyrics, and their don’t-give-a-shit charm, but the term started before that band even came around.  For one shining album, Prong made party metal that could have sweaty maniacs moshing hell-for-leather one moment, and grooving all sexy-like, looking for a hook-up the next.  It feels like music for people who would wear leather trousers out even though it’s 35 degrees in the club, but simultaneously it’s for those who subscribe to the Andrew W.K. party uniform.  So even if you’re in your jeans and white T-shirt, grab your leathered friend, get Cleansing blasting through your speakers, and let the party commence.

Produced by 90s metal producer extraordinaire, Terry Date, you’ll hear Pantera guitar tone influences on this record, and at times that groove metal feel might make you think Prong are little more than Pantera impersonators.  However, Prong and Tommy Victor (guitar, vocals) are far less interested in macho posturing and way more into industrial and dance music influences.  In fact, Prong are closer to White Zombie in their sense of musical fun, and, while the explosion of DJs in metal bands wouldn’t occur until later, you can feel the push towards scratching being incorporated into metal with some of the guitar techniques and sampling employed here.  “Broken Peace” begins with a Tom Morello-inspired background riff and a pummelling bass line.  Those Rage Against the Machine-like guitar squeaks hint at the developments mainstream metal would see in the 90s, but more importantly provide a lighter, more danceable backdrop to the industrial riffing that kicks in.  While Prong want you to dance to their tunes and keep everyone happy with their rounded rhythm section sounds, they are a heavy band and the riffs are crushing in their weight and sharpness.  Tommy Victor’s vocals are not the usual frothing, angry metal frontman style, but rather have a slow, deliberate burning intensity to them, exemplified by his delivery of the lines:

Now it's all exploding

Pick up the broken peace

Nothing left to break.

“One Outnumbered” maintains this vaguely politicised burning intensity but balances it with coddling passages of dream-like guitar clouds and soothing bass.  It’s indicative of a band mindful of dynamics and the value of a gentle sway to break up the neck-snapping headbanging.  That’s all well and good, but it ain’t metal if it doesn’t punch you in the face at some point, and the riff here is a series of jaw-cracking jabs, the vocal a left hook to make your head spin.  It’s one of those riffs that makes you wish you could bang your head backwards as well, as if standard headbanging doesn’t fully express your approval of the pacing, rhythm and crunch of that guitar sound.  Tommy Victor displays an exceptional innate sense of rhythm and groove on this record, both on guitar and in his vocals, and at points the album feels like a tribute to the riff, every song designed to put its perfectly formed guitar parts directly into your brain.

Even when things get a little swampy on the later tracks, there is an undeniable guitar hook in each song.  The squeezed riff of “No Question” inspires thoughts of Zakk Wylde’s over-exposed production on Sonic Brew; “Home Rule” hits with the intensity of Rollins Band and its great riff is perfectly complemented by peppery drumming; the staccato phrasing of “Sublime” is a prime example of what Prong do even if it wanders too much.  But the true heart of this album is in its opening third.  First track, “Another Worldly Device”, does not delay its riff attack, shredding your tympanic membrane with a delightfully abrasive guitar sound played at speeds that keep your feet moving double time.  The raspy vocals match that riff, before the solo injects a little left-field lunacy with wailing squeaks that continue to lie below the surface of the closing chorus.  “Cut-Rate” has a lunacy of a thrashier nature, with top speed being reached within tenths of a second of the song’s beginning.  The solo somehow seems to crank that speed up until the song can barely contain itself and it dissolves into some vague industrial noises and a plodding, heavy outro.  While both of these songs are great, Prong’s strength is not necessarily in playing at speed.  The album’s iconic high point is the party metal duo of “Whose Fist Is This Anyway?” and “Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck”, both more focused on intense groove, stop-and-start rhythms, and banging of the head.

“Whose First Is This Anyway?”, a song title applicable to so many life situations, is built on an incessant rhythm that allows the guitar parts to chop, stop, roll and generally keep the listener grooving and moving.  The influence of and on White Zombie can be heard most clearly here and is a clear sign of Terry Date’s work across the bands he worked with in the 90s.  “Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck” is a bona fide heavy metal classic.  The lyrics of working class hardship seem to carry a self-reflexive heavy metal importance that has made the track a club classic since its release.  The rolling bass intro lines up another cutting Prong guitar sound, but it’s happy to let Victor’s voice stand on its own before lurching back in with a galloping pre-chorus riff.  The picked sections, open string strumming, pinched harmonics, and vicious main riff provide an incredibly varied foundation for the iconic line to grab hold of its listeners, “snap your fingers, snap your neck”.  It’s a song for singing along, swinging your hair, and banging your head with your friends whether they prefer leather or denim.  Christ, even if they prefer corduroy or twill cotton.  Cleansing is an album that exists right at modern metal’s heart.  Welcoming fans from both ends of the metal spectrum to celebrate guitar riffs and party hard.  While Prong have never quite rediscovered this perfect balance, Cleansing stands as a classic metal album with an identity all its own.      

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #8

Nevermore – Dead Heart in a Dead World

(Century Media, 2000)

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In December of 2017 Nevemore’s former vocalist Warrel Dane died of a heart attack.  The band had split following The Obsidian Conspiracy, and Dane was recording his second solo album when he passed away.  While his problems with alcohol contributed to Nevermore’s split and ultimately his death, Dane's talent for dramatic, histrionically wild heavy metal vocals helped set his band apart from their contemporaries.  One of the few American acts to successfully adopt a more modern European style of heavy metal, Nevermore balanced crushing heaviness with mature melodies, and politicised ruminations on our technological world with Gothic fantasy.  Taken from the word repeated by the titular bird in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”, the band’s name seems fitting given their and the author’s American reworking of Gothic and horror traditions more commonly associated with Britain and Europe.  Dane’s theatrical style, lurching from soulful baritone crooning to high-pitched shrieks to sharp-edged, aggressive modern metal vocals, provides the album with a mid-Atlantic feel that somehow avoids compromise. 

Like Opeth at their peak, Dead Heart in a Dead World combines distinct styles while maintaining focus and direction.  Jeff Loomis’ guitar sound has a depth and versatility that is also reminiscent of Opeth, while Van Williams' punishing percussion reminds me of Vader but with the feel to deal with Nevermore’s more ballad-like tracks.  This balance of styles has the album on a knife edge of hysterical emotion and technical chicanery.  The joy of listening to Nevermore is the feeling you will fall from that edge at any moment, only to be pulled back by the perfect musical balance or an expertly timed shift in tone.  Take their nearly unrecognisable cover of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence” as an example: tight, heavy riffing and incessant snare strikes create an oppressive atmosphere that runs the risk of overpowering the wonderful lyrics of the original, but Dane’s ability to tell the story with loud “whispers” and proud, full-bodied melodies levels the scale.  Recorded at a time when metal bands were covering all sorts of popular songs, Nevermore’s effort stands out as a benchmark for all others to heed before trying their own.  But it is in their own compositions where they truly excel, producing hard-edged, technical, yet poetic heavy metal that conjures thoughts of Iron Maiden, Mercyful Fate, and most notably Queensrӱche.

In album closer “Dead Heart in a Dead World” we find Queensrӱche’s sense of drama but with an extreme metal edge that punches the emotions home and leaves the listener reeling.  In “The Heart Collector” we find the same earnest self-reflection and near melodrama.  Dominated by Dane’s plaintive cries and melodic crooning, Loomis takes a back seat here and Jim Sheppard’s rich bass sound becomes the foundation on which the ballad is built.  With that said, there are beautiful lead guitar details everywhere you turn in “The Heart Collector” and a heavy closing section that subtly blends the track with its surroundings.  Nevermore are often far more direct, evidenced by opening track “Narcosynthesis” and its furious expression of facing repressed memories.  With military precision Loomis, Williams, and Sheppard drill holes in your skull, which Dane then fills with fear-driven emotional drama.  It feels like Loomis’ guitar might break in two under the pressure, while Williams’ drums are steel kegs shattering your teeth with their exacting harshness.  “Inside Four Walls” opens with a more rounded bass-driven sound, but quickly pares back to a vicious Loomis verse riff perfectly setting up the expansiveness of the chorus.  Loomis’ bridge passages and solos are startling, as if he’s treating the song as a Youtube guitar exhibition while somehow retaining focus on the song’s tight 4-minute structure.  Even when Loomis and Williams show off it always feels as though it’s in service of the song.  “Engines of Hate” might be the perfect example of this: it seems to twist and turn with aggression and speed, displays incredible musicianship, and never once loses sight of its purpose.  It’s furiously heavy, technically complex, but structurally tight and unadorned: the sound of a perfectly focused heavy metal band.

However, the album’s peak appears when Nevermore bring together fantasy, spirituality, and humanity’s dangerous attempts to dominate nature through technology.  “The River Dragon Has Come” seamlessly blends these tropes into a seething and somehow featherlight heavy metal onslaught.  It’s here that Loomis' perfectly distorted guitar sound is able to lift its listeners to the greatest heights: phenomenal riffing, displays of patience and timing, ear-melting leads, and a songwriter’s willingness to let everyone else shine.  Complemented by Williams' bionic limbs, Sheppard’s huge bass foundation, and Dane’s inspired, emotive storytelling, “The River Dragon Has Come” is one of the most re-listenable songs I’ve ever encountered.  In fact, this is one of the most re-listenable records I’ve ever heard and is among the best heavy metal albums of the millennium it helped to mark.  Incorporating traditional metal sounds with focused songwriting and modern metal production quality, Nevermore, along with Opeth and Strapping Young Lad, set a standard for modern metal bands that was proud to look back but far more excited to push forward.  Dead Heart in a Dead World is ironically an uplifting and inspirational emotional journey.

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #9

The Presidents of the United States of America – The Presidents of the United States of America

(Pop Llama/Columbia, 1995)

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Opinion: The Presidents of the United States of America officially disbanded in November 2016 shortly after the presidential election because they could no longer associate themselves with the person who would share their title.

In their tumultuous existence, stretching over more than 20 years, The Presidents tried to spread the opposite of whatever the sitting U.S. President is made of: joy.  Infused in every song was abstract silliness, love, and a sense of fun that found expression in the hookiest hooks, chilled California sounds, fuzzy Seattle sounds, off-key screams, bouncing riffs, and inspirationally nonsensical lyrics.  Most widely known for this album’s hits (and my favourite karaoke songs) “Peaches” and “Lump”, The Presidents… is more interesting and touching than either of these songs suggest.  While they are all rock songs with simple rock song structures and simple rock song sounds, each is given a sense of personal experience and tender care that creates a connection with the listener rare among such outwardly silly bands.  No other band can make me sing along with complete and earnest dedication to seemingly meaningless lyrics:

Ten million monkeys all pick up guitars,

Nobody taught them how

Five thousand fishies rockin' really, really, really hard

Nobody taught them how

Check-out chicken drivin' Vinny's little blue car

Nobody taught them how!

And while it all seems like pointless fun, The Presidents… are also connected to reality.  For one, they have consciously taken part in the world’s largest ongoing jam by covering “Kick out the Jams” by MC5, and have written songs about their lack of talent/hope and the lure of fame in the California sunshine.  “We Are Not Going to Make It” is the most direct rocker of a song on the album.  A big hooky bass line leads us straight into a ripping chorus sung on the edge of their screeching capability, and with lyrics like, “… there's a million better bands / with a million better songs” you have to admire the honesty of the band’s debut.  The false start at the beginning of the song coupled with its unproduced garage rock sound makes it nearly impossible not to love them.  “Naked and Famous” is a much more considered track overall, and its patience and humour make it a soul-cuddling conclusion to the record.  Its picked verse sections are endearing while the plodding pre-chorus and chorus are a wonderful set-up for a fuzzed-out, solo-filled, “woo hoo”-tinged bridge section where The Presidents… let loose again.  The quiet contemplation of nude fame becomes an outright celebration of the human desire to be naked and famous at all. 

While “Stranger”, with its wistful verses and bombastic chorus, brilliantly touches on the clumsiness of instant human attraction, especially in awkward circumstances, the band otherwise seem preoccupied with animals and what our relationships with them might tell us about ourselves.  The album cover imagines what The Presidents might look like as little brass animals, and songs like “Kitty”, “Boll Weevil”, and “Body” are dedicated to the peculiarity and appeal of different animals.  “Body” appears to be the childhood memories of amphibians and lizards that have died in various ways, the images of their dead bodies having left indelible images in the child’s mind.  Its seductive verse sounds create an alluring atmosphere that becomes brilliantly weird the first time you realise what they’re singing about.  The pounding closing to the song, with the refrain “I can’t get your body out of my mind”, is an album highlight.  “Boll Weevil” seems to be about a lazy friend with physical characteristics of a boll weevil, mostly his bug butt, and is an ode to the glory of being outside in the sunshine.  While they may not convince Boll Weevil to move, the infectious energy of the track has me wishing hard that I had some sunshine to go out chasing right now.  Album opener “Kitty” uses cat sounds, cat behaviour, and the simultaneous appeal and nuisance of cats to introduce the listener to the animal-themed madness coming their way.  It’s a welcoming, infectious, and funny start to an album that will leave you feeling like you love everyone and everything.

And that’s why this album is on this list.  As the rest of the albums that I’ve written about might give away, I don’t find myself drawn to much “happy” music, but this album taught me to dance, shriek, and even sway with closed eyes to all these fun sounds and ideas.  The wonder of an unstoppably infectious track like ”Feather Plukn” is what this music is all about.  It’s silly, cute, and nonsensical but it’s sung with complete and forthright joy.  Even though the song marvels at the talents of animals, I feel like the band are cheering me on, celebrating all the amazing little things I can do – even though some of the animals seem more talented than me.  This spirit of celebratory joy is what made “Lump” and “Peaches” such big hits for the band.  And while I take those songs for granted somewhat, they brought thousands of people together in celebration of being alive, animals or not.  The best way I can describe the impact of this band is to recount seeing them live in London years ago.  The Presidents… were playing the entirety of this album start to finish, and though I’m not a naturally social animal, within seconds of the set starting I was wrapped around the stranger next to me, jumping in unison, singing or screaming every word together, and having the most fun imaginable.  In between every song we smiled at each other, and at the end of the gig we wished each other the happiest lives.  If you were to tell me that story I might boke, but in all honesty, it is one of the purest, happiest, and most enjoyable nights of my life.  

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #11

Monster Magnet – Dopes to Infinity

(A&M, 1995)

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There are albums that always feel like you’re coming home when you listen to them.  You’ve been away a long time, and the welcoming familiarity of those sounds brings back relaxing and reassuring memories.  But it’s not just the nostalgic comfort it brings, it’s the quality of the sounds, and that sense the music, like your home, exists within you the whole time.  Dopes to Infinity is one such album.  Monster Magnet accomplished this simply by not trying.  They weren’t trying to be anything, they only wrote and performed the music they were destined to make, with no pretensions, no posturing.  While the band lost that natural feel over the next four albums – Powertrip was an attempt to become hard rock icons (and did this brilliantly); God Says No came off as a self-aware diversification of their sound; Monolithic Baby! was a disjointed mish-mash of the previous two albums; and 4-Way Diablo felt like they were lacking direction or inspiration – they would regain it spectacularly with the release of Mastermind.  It’s the spaced-out, laidback, drug-fuzz of Mastermind and Dopes to Infinity that is the best of Monster Magnet.  On these albums the notes, echoed vocals, organic solos drift from one astral plane to another, combining corporeal pleasures, metaphysical meanderings, dream-like imaginings, and modern cultural references to form a space rock cornucopia.

Title track “Dopes to Infinity” is a clear example of this, effortlessly sliding from dense stoner riffs to floating on heavenly clouds through the gentle hum of the backing vocal and the perfectly mixed guitar lead.  That’s without mentioning how utterly righteous Dave Wyndorf’s voice is, and its ability to imbue words like, “We are all here my friends/Alive and spaced but all so beautiful”, with both cool and gravitas.  I haven’t always understood what Wyndorf is singing about, but I’ve always felt like it means something.  The seamless transition into second track, “Negasonic Teenage Warhead”, takes us to Monster Magnet’s first notice to the world that they could write incredible rock anthems.  Essentially conveying Wyndorf’s disappointment at Kurt Cobain’s elevation to rock star and the accompanying saddening of rock ‘n’ roll, Monster Magnet wanted to remind the mid-90s that it was ok to rock out JUST FOR FUN.  Big bass, killer riff, cyclonic theremin sounds (?), rock screams, and a giant pogo-ing chorus all combine to create the foundations for giant rock hits on next album Powertrip.  In 2001, Scottish comics geniuses Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely used the track title to name their new teenage X-Men trainee character, who was subsequently brilliantly re-imagined as a disaffected teen with explosive powers in the 2016 film Deadpool.  These things seem to exist in meta-textual harmony as Monster Magnet used a Jack Kirby Marvel character to name the fifth track here, “Ego, the Living Planet”, most recently seen depicted by Kurt Russell in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2.  I have it on good authority that Kurt Russell is a huge Monster Magnet fan.  It’s all connected…

“Ego, the Living Planet” is built on a cosmically repetitive, driving stoner riff with monk-like chanting and frantic lead woodling lying just below the surface.  The only vocals are the briefly repeated line, “I talk to planets baby”, and the screams of presumably planet-devoured souls.  Wyndorf’s love for and fascination with the epic sci-fi and philosophical work of comic writer and artist Jack Kirby inspired him to create a song about one of his most innovative characters, a living planet.  The size of the riff and the cosmic feel to the whole song perfectly capture the feeling of awe such a character can inspire.  But Monster Magnet being Monster Magnet, they pivot in the following track, lulling us back to comfort with gentle strumming and loving vocal melodies in “Blow ‘Em Off”.  Monster Magnet are in such a perfect groove on this record that you never notice the changes of tone, the shifts from quiet to loud, or the difference between hallucinatory visions and very real observations from the world of 1995.

It is difficult to pull out favourite tracks from Dopes… because each song has at least moments that near perfection, but Monster Magnet reach levels of undeniable stoner excellence in “King of Mars” and “All Friends and Kingdom Come”.  In the former, Wyndorf shines the light on another comics influence, Edgar Rich Burroughs, by referencing two of his most iconic creations with the single line, “And I can crown me Tarzan, King of Mars”, while taking us on a journey through soundscapes of heavy, reverberating, open string strumming, gentle leads, booming bass, and perfectly unnoticeable drums.  “All Friends and Kingdom Come” seems to describe the megalomaniacal actions of another comic character from Evil Ernie, who, having been given Armageddon-like superpowers, holds the future of humanity in his psychotic hands.  Where “King…” displayed the brilliance of Ed Mundell, Joe Calandra, and Jon Kleiman on their instruments, “All Friends…” presents the subtle melodies of Dave Wyndorf’s voice as the focal point. 

“King…” keeps us hooked with detailed soundscapes, “All Friends…” with simplicity and immediacy, but both display how completely interwoven the band’s various sounds, tones, and ideas are on this record.  The experience of listening to this record is one of seamlessly flowing sounds, images, tastes, smells, and touch.  It is the gentlest of trips because, even though it rocks incredibly hard at times, it never forces things, never pushes things where they don’t want to go as musicians, and where you as listener rather they wouldn’t.  It is undoubtedly healthy for artists to push themselves into unfamiliar territory in the pursuit of new forms of art, but sometimes it is more enjoyable to witness artists working at the peak of their ability within their limits, simply riffing on what they already know and bringing us along for the ride.  As with the brilliance of White Zombie, there is little point trying to discuss all the detail that goes into a record like this, all I can suggest is finding a copy of Dopes to Infinity and letting your mind be blown to kingdom come.  

    

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #12

Rage Against the Machine – Rage Against the Machine

(Epic, 1992)

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Sitting in the back seat of my Dad’s car with a personal cassette player listening to Rage Against the Machine en route to a family holiday in Florida is not the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done.  But hearing those words and crazy guitar sounds burning in my ears during those hours, I felt ready to protest everything, to jump out of a moving car, to tear the branded holiday wear from by body, and live a life outside of the machine.  While this has never actually happened (it’s a work in progress…), this was a watershed moment for me musically, culturally, and politically.  It’s not every day that a kid goes to Disney World a neatly dressed, rule-obeying lad, and returns a ferocious, politically minded and opinionated nuisance.  My Mum and Dad are probably angrier at RATM than any other band. 

But RATM are just as angry at us.  Tracks like “Killing in the Name” and “Wake Up” throw our passive complicity with injustice in our faces, asking us to arm ourselves with knowledge and act.  While live recordings from the time betray vocalist Zack de la Rocha’s youthful idealism, the band’s integrity and intent cannot be questioned.  They used their major label status to support causes and protests standing against global injustice, with the band’s very real support of the Zapatistas in Mexico even resulting in rumours of Zack de la Rocha being involved in gun-running for the organisation.  Guitarist Tom Morello’s recently created Firebrand Records for protest and rebel music exemplifies his dedication to spreading the word and giving a platform to otherwise unknown political music acts.  It’s this dedication to their causes and the very real burning anger at the heart of each song that makes this album so moving and inspirational.  While the teeth of mainstream metal seemed to have fallen out in the early 90s, RATM came screaming to life, tearing through the posturing of MTV metal bands with incisor-like efficiency. 

“Know Your Enemy” is one such track.  Morello’s killswitch shifting of reality is grounded by Tim Commerford’s enormous funk bass before the speedy punk riff kicks in and takes us into the song’s anti-establishment heart:

Yes I know my enemies

They’re the teachers who taught me to fight me

Compromise, conformity, assimilation, submission

Ignorance, hypocrisy, brutality, the elite

All of which are American dreams.

The final repeated line is the blood-boiling, condemnatory conclusion to a furiously tight, funk-punk attack on the figures of authority who distort and abuse the system to keep others down.  But we should also celebrate the musical diversity on display: Morello’s riffing takes on classic mid-paced metal stylings as well as deeply heavy modern metal “chugging”, not to mention his almost indescribable solo on this track, while Maynard James Keenan’s guest vocal adds texture and a different delivery of anger.  If you are seeking the most direct delivery of anger then preceding track, “Bullet in the Head”, has all you need.  Commerford’s bass and Zack de la Rocha’s vocals form the foundation of this track while Morello’s killswitch antics keep the listener guessing where this song might go.  It’s a relatively slow build, but for the song’s final two minutes that tension and anger are focused on powerfully delivering you the message that you have “a bullet in your fucking head”.  And while it’s easy to dismiss this as just a catchy, violent image, or as an interesting metaphor for being brainwashed by the “system”, it’s important to remember that RATM mean this literally too.  Then as now, innocent people are being shot in America by figures of authority, and it’s an injustice that somehow seems to divide people, such as the political/media/societal fallout of Colin Kaepernick’s beautiful and brave protest of police brutality and systemic racism.  Rage Against the Machine is arguably as relevant today as it was the day of its release.

While album opener “Bombtrack” perhaps feels dated and “Killing in the Name” is over-exposed, a classic track like “Wake Up” is just as violently potent today, and there are less discussed songs that deserve recognition.  “Settle for Nothing” and “Fistful of Steel” are just two examples of an album that is quality from first to last.  The former is a quiet, slow-build to unbelievable waves of heavy rage crashing around your ears intended to motivate immediate change.  The latter is a pounding lesson in the immediacy of heavy metal and rap music combined; “Fistful of Steel” is simple, direct, heavy as hell, and with as much attitude as you could ever need.  But for me, all that built up rage and the message at its heart is perfectly distilled in closing track, “Freedom”.  Bursting in on a bouncing riff, it has as much positive energy as any song on the record.  The stop-start power of the instrumentation, Brad Wilk’s control of the pace and anticipation, and Zack de la Rocha’s spit-filled tirades combine to make me thrash and sing along for seemingly minutes on end without ever breathing.  It’s a suitably destructive and constructive ending to an icon of resistance.

Fusing funk, punk, metal, and rap Rage Against the Machine reshaped rebellion in an age when it became acceptable to add the prefix “pop” to the term ”punk”.  But the commercial success of the band has taken us perilously close to taking this protest music for granted.  Rap-metal became a synonym for shit metal later in the 90s, but RATM are not to be blamed for that development.  In many ways, their final studio album of original songs, The Battle of Los Angeles, is a better album than this iconic debut.  Their legacy should remain untarnished after the bone and brain rattling attack of “Testify”, “Born of a Broken Man”, and “War Within in a Breath” from that album.  However, the band will always be remembered for reminding us to scream, “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!”, but to always, and more importantly, back it up with knowledge and action.  So while it is important to know your enemy, it might mean more to know yourself first.

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #13

Death – Symbolic

(Roadrunner, 1995)

Symbolic is not Death’s best album.  Human and Leprosy are essential listening, but as an ultra-infectious starting point for new fans, there is no better than Symbolic.  Filled with viciously grooving hooks, frenetic galloping passages, 80s and 90s video game riffing, and customarily excellent musicianship, this record is a smorgasbord of Death sounds.  It doesn’t have the cohesiveness or invention of Human, but it crams into 50 minutes just about everything you could want to know and feel about this band.  Symbolic was my gateway to the phenomenal and genre-defining work of Death, and as such has shaped my musical life as much as any other extreme metal album.

Line-up changes had become an accepted part of Death’s career, with only the late Chuck Schuldiner being a constant in their existence, and their 1995 release was no exception.  Bobby Koelble and Kenny Conlon would make their only recorded appearance with the band, while Gene “Atomic Clock” Hoglan would make his second and final album with Chuck before continuing his unmatched drumming tour of heavy music.  With the exception of Paul Masvidal and Sean Reinert’s influence on Human, Death was really Chuck Schuldiner and the Death Boys from the outset, and that fact shines through on this record.  Symbolic feels as though Chuck is allowing his writing to flow naturally, fusing the more exploratory styles of Human and Individual Thought Patterns with the instant catchiness of Leprosy and allowing himself more fun through his music.  There is a 90s video game quality to the whole affair.  In songs like “Without Judgement” I hear Makoto Tomozawa’s work on Megaman X, but the album’s frenetic riffing, rampant solos, and insane drumming continually remind me of playing Smash TV on the SNES or Xenon 2 on PC.  I feel like I’m dodging a hail of laser bullets, spinning in circles trying to avoid obstacles or collect power-ups, and panicking every time more baddies enter the fray.  It’s a dizzying experience of dense riffs, crystal clear solos, military precision drumming, and beautiful death metal vocals.

“Crystal Mountain” might be the best example of the immediacy of Chuck’s approach on this album.  Opening on a galloping riff, supported by Hoglan’s exquisite double bass control and overlaid with echoing lead guitar accents, this track is about as cheesy and catchy as extreme metal gets, with even a Spanish guitar somehow infiltrating the final moments.  It was the first Death track I ever heard and convinced me in mere seconds that I would be buying this album.  Once purchased, “Without Judgement” continued in this vein with its video game initial riff leading to more tightly packed verse guitars and frenetically paced choruses.  The speed and pitch perfect delivery seems to physically pick you up and spin you round, while Chuck’s vocals and lyrics provide the thoughtful counterpoint to this loss of corporeal control.  His drawn out vowels and deliberate pacing highlight his lyrical plea for a society and its people to be more open-minded, and to eschew over-simplification of others’ issues.

And I have to be careful not to oversimplify what Death have done on this record.  While it is more accessible than its two immediate predecessors, there is interesting complexity at every turn.  From Chuck’s slightly offbeat vocal on “Zero Tolerance” to the eight minutes of structural and pacing experimentation of “Perennial Quest”, via the choppy guitars and wild mid-section solos of “Empty Words”, this album is frequently surprising and rewards repeat listens.  The grooving intro of album opener “Symbolic” belies the chopping riffs, psychedelic sci-fi-inspired solos, and unexpected vocal rhythms that follow.  At times the song is travelling so fast, and there is so much density of sound, that the mind almost can’t keep up.  Adrenaline starts to flow in response to this barrage, and each Chuck growl stands to attention the hair on your neck and arms.  This is a feeling that doesn’t let up through album highlights “Empty Words”, “Sacred Serenity”, “1,000 Eyes”, and “Without Judgement”, each contributing to the album’s astounding middle act, and leaving listeners gasping for more.

Every time a Symbolic track pops up on shuffle, it’s time to stop what I’m doing, pay attention, and thrash my head relentlessly.  Every song is irresistible, the production is perfect, and the lyrics and vocals challenge any preconceptions of death metal.  That feeling of being thrown into a physical maelstrom while being intellectually stimulated is rare in music and is the reason that Death are so iconic.  To Chuck’s credit, Symbolic retains these qualities while somehow managing to incorporate an almost pop music level of catchiness.  This is death metal for those who enjoy a little life with their death.

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #14

Tool – Ænima

(Zoo Entertainment, 1996)

Buy the album here

On the CD of Tool’s Ænima is the image of a person performing an act of incredible flexibility, perhaps in pursuit of spiritual enlightenment and physical stimulation of the chakras found in yoga… perhaps attempting to fellate himself.  This is the tone Tool struck on their second full length release.  Even the title - a combination of Carl Jung’s term ‘anima’ representing the feminine archetype in his theories of collective unconscious, and the word ‘enema’ which is the flushing of faeces from the bowels – is equal parts intellectual and scatological.  Throughout the album there are challenging ideas, lyrics, and song structures, but Tool are more than happy to throw them in your face as if it was an elaborate rouse, or a stairway to nothing.  Disdain dominates the tone.  If I imagine the band sitting together while I’m listening to it, Adam Jones, Justin Chancellor, and Danny Carey are looking away as if they don’t care whether I’m listening or not, while Maynard James Keenan is giving me the finger with his twisted-up, little rat face.  This combination of disaffection and anger is Tool’s reaction to the vapid and flaccid cultural surroundings of mid 1990s Western capitalism, but feels even more relevant in the age of the internet where readily digestible content has elevated the meme to our primary form of emotional self-expression.

Ostensibly an alt-metal album with prog leanings, Ænima’s songs are frequently interspersed with odd conjoining tracks of varying tone and content.  These range from the distorted record sounds of “Useful Idiot” to the infamous recipe for hash cookies found in “Die Eier von Satan” which is read in German with the stylings and crowd reaction of a Hitler speech.  It seems to be an attempt to disorient the listener, making them evermore vulnerable to attack or new ideas.  After softening them up Tool hit them with the Altered States-like closer “Third Eye” which, in true Tool fashion, references both a transcendental gateway in human consciousness, perhaps found through psychedelic drug use, and the human male urethra.  It’s a mammoth song with musings on psychedelic drug use “prying open” the third eye, childhood memories, enlightenment, and freedom.  Opening on a pounding heartbeat and Bill Hicks eulogising drug use in artistic creation, the song is birthed by way of searching drum lines, slowly building bass, criss-crossing guitar distortion, and more of Hicks’ challenging comedy.  Keenan’s vocal is gentle and instructive, but as the tension builds his voice and the guitars heavily distort, and the song feels as though it will burst.  This passage seems to represent the trauma of drug use, and the calm and melody that are found on the other side stand for the enlightenment that may be reached in discovering the true meaning of the “third eye”. But ultimately, the album leaves us with the vicious heavy screaming, crashing drums, and sheet metal guitars of the line “prying open my third eye”.  It suggests violence and damage in finding enlightenment, but also conveys that passivity will never discover anything new, that meekly accepting the commodified life of capitalism will never enrich your life.

Tool are more musically accessible than this would suggest.  The intensity and focused malintent of a track like “Hooker with a Penis” is indicative of Tool’s ability to write direct, aggressive, powerchord-driven rock music.  “Forty Six and Two” takes a different tack, drifting in on warbling bass sounds, deliberately picked guitar notes and what sounds like bongos, before Maynard’s delicate vocal carries us patiently to the instant hooks of the track’s huge chorus.  And in “Jimmy” and “Ænema” Tool carefully build and nurture a desire for melodic catharsis that they are unafraid to fulfil.  The peaks of “Jimmy” are awe-inspiringly, spine-tinglingly intense with the dense riffs and melodic wails creating an atmosphere that is simultaneously claustrophobic and epic.  “Ænema” is more upfront with its riffs and melodies but matches this with an aggressive chorus that builds with each reprisal and Maynard’s soliloquy on “this stupid shit”.  The band’s suggestion that we all “learn to swim” is made more convincing by the sheer weight of sound that swamps your brain in the furious build towards this album’s climax.  Maynard gives us the rest we need with his beautiful delivery of the line, “I’m praying for rain”, but it’s a momentary distraction as landslide guitars crash in to this beauty, driving it out of our minds with thoughts of Armageddon.  Tool will make you feel like the world is ending, but that worse things could happen.

If you need to convince a friend that they need this album, the opening three tacks of Ænima will do that work for you.  “Stinkfist” is an immense opening track.  I can still feel the surprise I felt on first hearing that pulsing bass, Maynard’s equal parts fragile and angry voice, and the lilting, scratching, searching sounds of Jones’ guitar.  That sense of awakening is sustained through “Eulogy” and “H.”, and it’s in these two songs that we become familiar with Tool’s progressive sensibilities and soaring choruses.  “Eulogy” wanders, but is always mere seconds from exploding with melodic force, taking advantage of the tight, almost sinister, chugging of the verse riffs to provide a sense of elevation.  As the song closes one of the album’s defining moments leaves a lasting impression: Maynard screams “goodbye”, holding that final vowel sound for 12 seconds.  It’s an awe-inspiring, breathless moment that never fails to grab my heart and pull me closer.  This connection is further cemented with the more abrasive passion of “H.” with its similarly powerful chorus of brilliantly gauged drumming and truncated syllables and instant vocal hooks.  And this is Tool’s true strength.  Concepts, themes, enlightenment, deconstruction of western capitalist emotional wastelands, and even the undeniable skill of each musician all fall by the wayside when you are grabbed by these passionate, uplifting, and hook-laden outbursts.  Tool fans talk about interpretations of lyrics, album art, interval tracks, and even Bill Hicks, but what we’re all really in love with is that almost every song on Ænima lifts you up, shakes your bones, and has you singing and screaming along until you slump exhausted on the floor.  Music for self and global annihilation.

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #16

Tom Waits – Nighthawks at the Diner

(Asylum, 1975)

Buy the album second-hand online somewhere because I can't find a reputable place selling the damn thing any longer.

I’ve potentially broken my own rules in choosing this Waits album for the blog.  Is it technically a live album?  I would argue that in its production intent it is essentially a studio album recorded before a live audience.  But I would say that, wouldn’t I.  You and I will have to forgive me as this record NEEDS to be on the list.  Nighthawks at the Diner is a watershed moment in my cultural existence, and deserves to be discussed, criticised, and praised along with all the other albums here.  But mostly it will just be celebrated as the endearing, heart-warming, and wonderful performance it is.

Tom Waits was at the beginning of his recording career, so it might seem strange to opt for a “live” album so early on.  The difference here was that almost all the songs were original compositions written for this album.  The live setting was intended to bring out his jazz influences, and bring in the jazz fans.  Devotees of Closing Time and The Heart of Saturday Night, of which there were a handful, would have recognised Waits’ idiosyncratic tone, but may have been surprised by the humour, the stage persona, and the jazz atmosphere.  In creating this sound, producer Bones Howe was dedicated to bringing in some of jazz’s best musicians: Mike Melvoin, piano; Pete Christlieb, tenor sax; Jim Hughart, upright bass; Bill Goodwin, drums.  Waits even went to the length of writing this about them in the liner notes for the record:

I’ve had the privilege to work with some of the most creative and imaginative, leviticously duteronomous hi voltage musicians

I don’t know what he means, but it sounds pretty damn good.  The music they created together is bewildering, beautiful, and continually surprising.  Bass sounds deeper than the Mariana Trench and sax smoother than Dr. J gliding to the hoop create a disarming and charming jazz foundation over which Waits’ ramblings, croons, and asides hang like the cigarette smoke you can almost feel in the air of the club as you listen to this record.

Pulling out individual songs is a strange way to talk about an album of this sort – it’s more about how the whole experience moves you – but there are highlights worthy of note.  “Nighthawk Postcards” is a wandering lounge jazz epic in which you’ll bump into all of Waits’ knowledge, heart, obsessions, and observations.  In “Nobody” we are dealt a more sincere, Streisand-like, Tom Waits, but his gravel-raked throat lends this story of a tumultuous relationship a down-to-earth quality that draws it in line with the rest of the performance.  “Better Off Without a Wife” has more than a hint of irony to it, especially considering the number of songs Waits has written with or dedicated to his wife Kathleen Brennan, but its cliché-filled longing for male freedom shows off Waits’ incredible storytelling prowess and his under-appreciated (at least in his later career) ear for a melody.  This is sing-along song-writing and performance at its best.  As a raconteur-cum-troubadour Waits is in a class of his own, and in “On a Foggy Night” these skills are on full display.  His voice draws you in with its tuneful laziness, and is somehow able to create a mesmerising tale of being lost driving in the dark, before leaving you in a trance with its delicate repetition of the chorus.  Even “Eggs and Sausage”, a song with a delightfully irreverent chorus, becomes a touching observation of the humanity on display in society’s meeting places.

Indeed, it is Waits’ raconteur-like ability to put on display his humanity, even in persona, and his belief in the goodness of everyday people that makes his performance so enthralling.  While this record has indirectly led me to the music of Frank Zappa and Nick Cave, I’ve never felt as connected to an overt storytelling songwriter as I do with Tom Waits, and this ability to connect is no more evident than in the spoken-word/stand-up intros.  Whether it’s discussing the service in the venue or really romantic wanks, his words are inclusive and expertly gauged.  His ability to pass this all off as spontaneous stream-of-consciousness is inspirational and probably a source of embarrassment to many supposedly professional comedians.  Even when he makes jokes specific to 1970s America or even about local LA hotels and diners, his delivery ensures we all feel part of the joke, whether we get it or not.  With the line “I’m so damn horny, the crack of dawn better be careful around me… I wanna pull on your coat about something” in the opening moments of the record, Waits makes you his friend in an instant, and prepares you for the gently cutting wit that you assume must be stolen, but isn’t.  A little more than 70-minutes later, after laughing, singing, and bopping to the whole affair, Waits is confident enough to leave us with nothing more than a “thanks for coming”.  The End.   

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #19

Mars Volta – Frances The Mute

(Universal, Gold Standard Laboratories, Strummer, 2005)

Buy the album here

Mars Volta exist outside my comfort zone.  Watching me trying to discuss this band must be horrible viewing.  I desperately want to know what I’m talking about, and I feel like I have so many things to say, but in the end I just stumble around saying “prog” and “jazz influences” a lot, hoping nobody notices the bead of sweat on my forehead or the nervous twitch in my eye.  A work colleague, after I had recommended them the band, once asked me, “what’s with all the long stretches of just weird noises?”.  My response began confidently, “Mars Volta are trying to…”, before the idea withered in the air between us, fell to the floor, and died an ignoble death.  I had nothing.  In all honesty, I don’t think I have much more now, but Frances The Mute is a joyous, mind-bending, challenging, fun, and insanely catchy record.  So I’ll try not to think too hard. 

The ease with which the music transports me from setting to setting without my awareness is the most powerful attraction.  One moment I’m in a Humphrey Bogart film set in a bar in Argentina, the next I’m in Outer Space watching the birth of a star, without a hint of turbulence on the journey between the two.  In among all the weird effects, extended ambient passages, and “wankery” are incredible musicians capable of the most delightful melodies, stirring guitar rock, and captivating string arrangements.  Omar Rodríguez-López is one of the most talented songwriters of his generation; Cedric Bixler-Zavala’s vocals are unique, bewildering, and seemingly limitless; and there are incredible guest contributions from David Campbell, Flea, and John Frusciante.  The latter’s solos on “L’Via L’Viaquez” are charged explosions of pure energy that galvanise the entire song and help to prepare the listener for Bixler-Zavala’s wild, soaring Spanish vocals.  The cultured trumpet work on “Miranda That Ghost Just Isn’t Holy Anymore” comes from Back To The Future II’s very own Flea, and is backed up by the excellent string arrangements and performances of David Campbell.  Some may argue that having to wade through seemingly endless minutes of “noise” at the start of that track is more trouble than it’s worth.

But I disagree.  For me, I’m still running the previous melody in my head while these ambient stretches transport me to the next.  Being given the time to enjoy the textures, to play with them, change them, reform them as my own is a rewarding listening experience.  The beauty of the sounds with which Mars Volta emerge from these various soundscapes, squeaks, and effects is gauged to perfection.  The delicacy of the trumpet that re-awakes us about four minutes in to “Miranda…” is sublime, and the ongoing peaks and troughs of “Cassandra Geminni”, originally intended to be a single track, are expertly managed.  The suite, comprising the final eight tracks of the original CD release, is the album’s most emotive and is built on the most up-front drumming on the record, frantic guitar solo and vocal sparring, epic riffs, bat-shit crazy bass playing, and all the weird synthesizer squeaks Omar Rodríguez-López can think of.  It might seem like songwriting by splatter gun to some, but all I know is that for the final 30 minutes or so of this record I am in complete thrall to all of Mars Volta’s sounds.  Even when it sounds like Ron Burgundy is playing jazz flute in the background.  If all of that seems like too much hard work, simply turn to “The Widow” with its high drama, passion, and melodic immediacy.  Mars Volta are more than capable of hitting you with vocal hook after vocal hook, or insidiously catchy riffs, or even strings so memorable they’ll be running through your mind for days, but they give these moments the space to transform in your mind to something far more meaningful.  

Mars Volta divide opinion.  There were those that preferred At The Drive-In and found Mars Volta to be an obstruction to their return.  There are those that point to their self-indulgence and pretentiousness, especially live, as reason enough to discard them.  At the same time, Mars Volta have captured the imagination of many fans who perhaps the miss the grand ambitions of older prog and psych bands.  In fact, Q, Mojo, and Classic Rock have all included this album on various “best of” lists, while other publications have derided its, and the musicians’, absurdity.  Perhaps it’s that absurdity that helped open my mind to the transformative potential of music outside my normal sphere of operation.  It was, at least, a new beginning for me.  There’s something here, it’s just not everyone sees it.  They’re probably thinking too hard.

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #20

Zao – The Fear Is What Keeps Us Here

(Ferret, 2006)

Buy the album here

Metalcore is dogged by the reputation that its bands all sound the same.  It is the heavy metal scene’s heavy metal.  But as heavy metal fans we know nothing is this straight forward.  The sub-genre has highs and lows like any other, and for every complete turd there is a hidden gem somewhere.  One of these is Zao’s 2006 effort produced by the incomparably great Steve Albini.  For every over-produced, slick, almost sickly sweet metalcore album Zao have delivered a minor antidote, and as the modern metal world fawned over Killswitch Engage’s all-too-earnest End of Heartache, Zao were working on giving up control in the studio and bringing something raw back to the scene.  The result was the deeply scary The Fear Is What Keeps Us Here.

Built on live performances transferred to analogue tape and over-driven vocals, The Fear… is testament to the immediacy and brutality that can be squeezed out of one of metal’s most maligned sub-genres.  Zao have no fear taking inspiration from hardcore and black metal simultaneously to make a that has its listeners clinging on in more ways than one.  And with Steve Albini helping to craft that sound, it is a cliff-edge experience throughout: the raucous sound is constantly seconds away from imploding, testing the limits of your speakers.  To keep listeners teetering on the brink the whole record without actually dropping them off and losing them forever is a skill, but one that Zao have mastered here.

With the addition of Martin Lunn and Jeff Gretz, surviving members Dan Weyandt and Scott Mellinger pushed the band towards this new sound, and though they’ve looked elsewhere since, it is their most impactful and memorable album.  From the dark, patient, then explosive opening of “Cancer Eater” to the rolling, punk-infused spirit of “A Last Time For Everything” with its petrifying, over-amplified outro, The Fear… is designed to make you feel uncomfortable throughout.  Unlike much of metalcore, and indeed Zao’s other albums, little is offered in terms of melodic escape.  Weyandt’s vocals are almost exclusively growled and screamed with a near black metal intensity, while the live production style lends itself more keenly to aural aggression and abrasiveness.  The lyrics focus on humanity’s helplessness and lack of control in the face of death, loneliness, failure, and the fear these generate.  There is no hopeful and uplifting chorus to look forward to, the listener must endure and somehow come out stronger under their own willpower.  Weyandt reminds us of the simple, dark truths of life, and refuses to see the positive side on this album:

Everything you love will fly away
On the wings of an unknown destiny
Behind the sun and disappearing sky
Everyone you love will pass away

This is not music made to make you happy, but crafted to move you and make you contemplate your own fears.

“Physician Heal Thyself” builds a wall of sound with furious, dirty riffs and cascading drums which Weyandt’s vocals attempt to pull down with vicious growls and Converge-esque grunts.  The breakdown towards the end reminds us that this is metalcore, but third track “Everything You Love Will Soon Fly Away” discards this balance in favour of bleak blackened hardcore.  It rips into existence with the sounds of furious instruments bleeding out through one another, and not until the isolated melodic chorus vocal of “It’s Hard Not to Shake With a Gun In Your Mouth” do we have a reprieve.  The spoken word section and key change explosion of the bridge in this track is the most idiosyncratically Zao, and one of many highlights.  “There is No Such Thing as Paranoia” slows the pace momentarily, but this only allows the sheer weight of the creeping fear to rest heavier on your chest.  With each wretched scream, cymbal crash, and twisted riff it becomes harder and harder to breathe.  The lyrically questionable “Pudgy Young Blondes With Lobotomy Eyes” does nothing to alleviate this feeling with coiled hardcore riffing and an expansive bridge section with sheet ice riffing.  It all comes to a head with “A Last Time for Everything” in which one of the lightest and punkiest songs of the album also succumbs to the fear, being swamped by the deafening mantra, “the fear is what keeps us here”, until it collapses under the strain of its own distorted, broken sound.

This is not an album to be listened to in a darkened room, not as release from hard times in your life, not to be visited in your loneliest moments.  You’d better be ready to listen to this.  It pins you to a wall and asks you all the questions you would rather avoid.  It is relentless in pursuing negativity with horrid sounds, crushing lyrics, and no obvious points of escape.  The Fear Is What Keeps Us Here denies you the cheap “pop” moments that make metalcore so easy to like, and instead invites you to look in to the darkest parts of your life.  If you survive that process you might just find a place in your heart for this record.    

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #22

Meshuggah – Catch Thirtythree

(Nuclear Blast, 2005)

Buy the album here

Catch Thirtythree is a mind-numbing, obstinate, confusing brute.  It’s wilfully bleak, esoteric, repetitive, violent, and it has no concern for your sanity or wellbeing.  Choosing to listen to Catch Thirtythree is like choosing to eat granite for dinner, washing it down with acid, then lying back on a bed of nails to experience the pain in your gut.  Everybody knows you don’t digest well lying down.  Possibly due to the burning darkness inside me, this album instantly jumped inside my brain and has refused to leave ever since.  This appears to be the case for many others as well.  Meshuggah’s popularity/ubiquity (it’s hard to tell) in metal steadily grew with this and next record, Obzen.  Trying to understand why is the purpose of this blog post.

Ostensibly set out as a single suite concept album, the track names that make up the whole piece are little more than signposts along this bizarre journey.  If a listener approaches this album expecting hooks, choruses, or even “songs”, they may very well quit before the end.  Meshuggah give you the bare minimum with which to hold on, pulling out long passages of repetitive “djent” guitar rhythms or eerie atmospheric tracks in between moments of pummelling heaviness which are relieving in their relative catchiness.  The drums are all programmed from samples of Tomas Haake’s actual drumming, and it lends the whole album a punishingly robotic feel.  This is balanced by the sheer demonic power of Jens Kidman’s death growl which is varied, dynamic, and impassioned.  The earth-shattering bass sound on this album doesn’t make it a warmer experience, but definitely contributes to the intimidating size of the sound.  All told, Meshuggah have better albums with better songs on them.

But there is something perspective-altering about the determined and brutal delivery of this concept.  There is a line that can be drawn from the first note through the entire piece to its culmination, around which Meshuggah have created never-ending variations on a theme.  The music never strays from its ultimate mission to surreptitiously pull the listener in to this unforgiving world of paradoxes, so that as the final act of this piece (represented by “Shed”, “Personae Non Gratae”, “Dehumanization”, and “Sum”) plays we are no longer aware of how we got here or why we stayed.  Nothing is what it seems: track beginnings and ends are mostly indistinguishable; dynamics seem to build to imminent catharsis before being discarded unfulfilled; Jens Kidman’s anger is more existential struggle than angst or rebellion; even the drums don’t “exist”. 

Repeated rhythms cast a spell over your mind, pulling you deeper than you could ever expect to go with such unwelcoming music.  It’s like being in a darkened room with a green laser blasting right in to your eye, yet you can’t look away, can’t even turn your head.  Trying to draw out highlights from such an experience is difficult, but the surging pace and riff of the first three tracks, “Autonomy Lost”, “Imprint of the Un-Saved”, and “Disenchantment” are breath-taking, while the sickening breakdown feel of “The Paradoxical Spiral”, “Re-inanimate”, and “Entrapment” is insanely addictive.  The monstrous sounds and robotic soliloquy of “Mind’s Mirrors” are the hinging point of the whole record, before Meshuggah launch themselves head-first in to the hellish explosion of “In Death – Is Life”.  The anticipation alone is enough to survive on, but the song itself is a brilliant standalone track that would not be out of place on Chaosphere.  The protracted hammering of “In Death – Is Death” is a masterwork of controlled dynamics and perfectly sets up the more immediate final act that I discussed above.  But I don’t think that “how good any of the songs is” has anything to do with why I like this album so much.  It’s about its purity of vision.  It’s about the fact that Meshuggah do not care what you expect, or what the rules are.  It’s about having something completely new.  Even if it is sick, disgusting, and completely messed up.  

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