A Soldier For Each Star In the Sky

FOR ALL KINGS
2/26/2016

Forget Not-Man, he's old news. Anthrax are their own mascot. If the band members don't have a 60" x '48" print of that album cover framed and hung somewhere in their respective domiciles, there ain't no more heroes no more.

For All Kings differs from its predecessor Worship Music in two significant areas: lead guitar is now handled by Shadows Fall founder Jon Donais (no big deal really) and the songs were written for Joey Belladonna to sing (huge deal really).


"You Gotta Believe"--Such an Anthrax song title. Confidence has always been the single trait separating them from their comrades, be it in their approach to life or to aping younger bands in the genre.

From the first, the band lets us know that the gloomy days of "Panthrax" can't even be felt by the most sensitive worm. After several blows direct to the nose, the fist unclenches for a stinging slap. Such a dick move. But, I love it. (Not like it was MY face.) Until the dull soloing begins. Misplaced languidness is really more of a Megadeth thing, guys.

"Monster At the End"--Of every Choose Your Own Adventure story gone awry. Joey's really going with that voice! His actual tone is fine; the choices, the flourishes, I would say he should have thought twice, but maybe he did.

Heavy as an Easter Island Head in the midst of an existential crisis.

"For All Kings"--Old-school Belladonna, crown-spearing riffage…the way the band holds everything aloft, it's difficult to not feel awestruck in the presence of such gilded metal.

"Breathing Lightning"--Balancing the urges is no mean feat; nah, it's fuckin' nasty. Metal means what? Frenetic and untamed. Until it means atmospheric and focused.

"I stalk this land with just one purpose"--to keep doing "the right thing." Which is? Hardly a mystery. Keep sniffing the air if you haven't figured it out halfway through.

"Suzerain"--Atomic wedgies, hydrogen noogies, but then the chorus is old guard Bard-style. How'd we go from catapults to launch pads?

Anthrax are merchants of metal, willing and able to embrace melody and buoyancy in the same arms that clutch speed and power, which is why For All Kings will wind up on my "Best Of" list at year's end.

"Evil Twin"--Think Hebdo, not Hebner. The monster at the everywhere.

Fuck off, y'all. This is razor blade to the throat after you just taped the mouth shut. This is splitting shotgun shells for a salad. Sharpen the sword only to jab at the enemy with a rusty spoon.

"Blood Eagle Wings"--Here's the advance tracklisting for the new Anthrax. One of those songs is eight minutes long--care to venture a guess?

The intro piece fills me with jealousy towards all archers that have ever lived. Everyone who's ever scaled a mountain, regardless of height or fame. Can't tremble behind the ice and fog for too long; the mountains are still there, somehow, and I can always pay for lessons.

Joey Belladonna was put on this planet to belt the crap out of choruses. And to sing the "Star-Spangled Banner" before sporting events in Chicago. 

"Defend Avenge"--A general can't lead the men (and the cross-dressing women) in his battalion if the a.m. cobwebs just won't clear. How did wars ever end in the days before Visine and energy drinks?

"All of Them Thieves"--The dirt's been soaked with liquid rehash, and Joey doesn't step into the earth with enough strength to make a print worth any investigators time.

"The Battle Chose Us!"--Up, puppets! After nine songs of fighting, Anthrax have now settled down, stirred yet unshaken, to process the losses. Who knew their destiny was to be the American Iron Maiden?

"Zero Tolerance"--Desire does not necessarily abate with age so much as it refocuses. The differences between sublime and ridiculous are much less distinct than, say, those between Sublime and R.E.M. So a success story should be celebrated, and a rousing one deserves a cake not bought fully formed, decorated with an icing of regal hue, some cryptic seal in the center.



Anthrax always wanted to be Metallica, even in the days before Metallica were Metallica. They were never as successful, either commercially or critically or creatively, but with the critical assist of a fresh motivation, Anthrax have made peace with the present and in doing so, have accomplished something none of the other Big 4 could do this year: left me more excited for their future releases.

Welcome Back, Pothead

WORSHIP MUSIC
9/13/2011

Worship Music is a return to form after a lengthy streak of deep brown.  I could not have predicted such given a thousand guesses.  It wasn't just my observance of the trend downward that made me so dubious, but also the rather nasty bout with LSD Anthrax had in the eight years between albums. 

In 2004, the guys released the somewhat interesting The Greater of Two Evils, a covers album featuring a fan-selected tracklisting of pre-John Bush songs as sung by Bush.  (Not featured in my discography series because there's only so many ways I can express how woefully ill-suited Bush's vocal range was for nearly every one of those tracks without boring even myself.)  The next year, a reunion of "classic lineup" was announced, and Bush had to take a break while Anthrax went out on tour with Joey Belladonna.  The reception was such that rumors began circulating about the possibility of new material with Joey at the mic, but there was a big difference between getting some nice change to play old stuff for a loyal crowd, and trying out the old formula on new consumers.  Especially when old wounds had not truly healed.  When the prospect of a 25th anniversary tour featuring both Belladonna and Bush essentially "splitting" vocal duties was shot down, the "Joey Returns!" chapter in the biography was considered finished.  So too, it seemed, was the "Big John Stud" chapter, as Bush's wounded pride would not permit him to return to the Anthrax camp.

Enter Dan Nelson.  From 2007 to 2009 he performed with Anthrax, and the band was able to write and record a new album, titled Worship Music, tentatively scheduled for a May 2009 release.  But then…drama.  Did Dan Nelson quit?  Was he fired?  That one's gonna go down alongside such mysteries as the Black Dahlia murder, except there are actually people who give a fuck about the Black Dahlia murder.

Anthrax promptly cancelled all upcoming gigs, save for one at the UK Sonisphere Festival, when John Bush returned and there was much rejoicing.  An online "Bring Back Bush" campaign sprung up, one that found a very important supporter in Scott Ian.  But Bush's heart wasn't into returning to the studio just to belt out a bunch of songs he had no hand in creating, nor did he find the prospect of extensive touring as appealing as it may have been in the past.

Enter, one more time, Joey Belladonna. 

Anthrax got back in the studio, re-did Worship Music, and there was much rejoicing, yet again.

"Worship Music"--Or at least after the useless sound collage of an introduction was over with.

"Earth On Hell"--Fiercely tethered displeasure will not stay forever.  Show the beast fresh meat, release, and once freed the hunger subsumes all other needs.

"The Devil You Know"--Catchy and resolutely non-cornball.  You never know how much you miss something until it spits in your face.

Anthrax with John Bush was virtually a different band.  One element that went (largely) missing along with Joey was the ability to shine bright lights into dark nooks.  I'm talking storytelling.  I'm talking choruses with their own effect lines surrounding them.  The passion that puts the color in your cheeks instead of draining the color out of them.

"Fight 'Em Til You Can't"--Just like every other great song here, "Fight" is terse, tense and frill-free.  Throw in some Scott shouts and you've got tracks that are redolent of Among the Living without bearing any of the dreaded dreary nostalgia.  Shit, maybe Anthrax themselves are the zombies.

(None of the tracks from the Dan Nelson version of Worship Music have leaked to the masses, at least not that I could locate, and only a live version of "Fight" exists to give a taste.  Just based on this relatively scant evidence, the controversial departure of Nelson from the band was a blessing.  Dude sounds like the type of shameless Phil Anselmo wanna-be that Anthrax--of all fucking bands--did not need.)

"I'm Alive"--Joey opens Anthrax up to a new world of possibilities.  (What gives you greater chills, a picture of Ted Bundy glaring through his five o'clock shadow or one where he's squeaky-clean and blinding the world with his smile?)  His undeniable chops carry "I'm Alive" from an appealing yet common macho anthem to a voracious song for the gods. 

Ye who seek the definition of a payoff shall find it here.  Follow the gleaming mile-long path to a voluminous building with a nondescript exterior that doesn't fool you in the slightest.  You know that place houses something incredible. 

"Hymn 1"--"I am pumped right now!  Those strings sound all dramatic and demented!"

"Dude, it's like William Shatner giving somebody their last rites!"

"In the End"--No florid elegiac language needed or required.  This is as hard as crapping in a shot glass.  All good thrash metal hatefully replicates the crushing weight of despair and disbelief that visits upon us all at various points in our journey.  "In the End" is real fuckin' good.

"The Giant"--Cincinnati Bowtie to all the doubters!  (For the haters?  Alaskan Pipeline.)  Not the Beowulf-styled epic that I'd initially hoped for--too jerky--and the chorus seems better suited for Bush, but this still gives me warm happies.  Y'know, like a chicken pot pie does.

"Hymn 2"--"It's a drum solo?"

"No.  It's a drum showcase."

"Judas Priest"--A band goes and names one of their songs "Judas Priest"--they cannot come up lame.  Such an outcome is strictly forbidden.  You screw it up, well, you're no better than a trash-eating dog molester.

The acolytes in Anthrax eat naught but the choicest slices decorated with the most flavorful toppings, and they would beat you hairless if you dared even sneeze on a puppy.  The thrills to be experienced here are plentiful and abrasive.  Get that surprised look off your face, it's the tenth song already!

"Crawl"--I am a lover of any tune with a mighty bardic knock.

"The Constant"--The least memorable actual song on Worship Music is still quite good.  Inspired by a Lost episode of the same name.  I never watched that show, so I don't especially care.  Really I'd rather spend five minutes alone with a horny dolphin.

"Revolution Screams"--In this here century, very few real-world events deserve artistic celebration like the 2011 "Lotus Revolution."  Unfolding over two weeks throughout Egypt, this massive uprising saw millions of protesters utilizing traditional tactics of righteous truculence against the regime of President Hosni Mubarak.  These people were enraged.  They demanded respect.  They wanted to feel as if their voices were strong and significant.  Through actions both civil and violent, they got what they wanted.  They overthrew the fucking government.  I guarantee you not enough of us appreciate that, and I don't just mean my fellow Americans.

Eleven minutes in is a cover of the Refused song "New Noise."  Joey's a bit out of his depth, but the message remains--we all need new noise.



Primed for pension collection, Anthrax embraced the past and belly-suplexed it into the present. 

The Decline Continues Unabated

WE'VE COME FOR YOU ALL
5/6/2003

After five years away--entangled in record label chicanery and legal wrangling, not to mention some unwelcome publicity the likes of which Scott Ian could not have foreseen decades prior when "anthrax" was just a cool word from high school biology class--quietly slipping back into the room is not an option.  Well, no, it is an option.  Just a pussy one.

So what's up now?  Pantera's last album was three years ago, dudes.  Well, for starters Anthrax are finally a band again, having recruited Rob Caggiano for lead guitar duties as well as assisting with writing and producing material.  Kick in the ass or light push to the shoulder?

"Contact"--What is wiser--wasting space or killing time?  3…2…1…pffft.  Fuzzfuzz-bapbap is all I hear until the switch to buzzbuzz-fapfap.

"What Doesn't Die"--Reminiscent of Sound of White Noise in its discontent with maneuvering in a single predetermined lane of travel.  The discordant chorus gives some gravitas to the proceedings, and even if his songwriting chops have been undercooked as of late, Charlie Benante is always hyper-competent behind the drums.

"Superhero"--Smells like a Godsmack shirt.  The hook swirls when the motorboat gets the water rippling, but LOOK OUT IT'S CRUSHIN' TIME YET AGAIN GET UP MUTHAFUCKAS will you fucking stop with this already.

Yeah! Yell!  Each!  Word! In! The! Chorus!

"Refuse To Be Denied"--An anti-jingoism call-to-fists that James Hetfield will never refer to as a "perfect song."  The groove sounds more in Anthrax's actual wheelhouse that they built themselves out of graciously-acquired materials, rather than retrieved from a shared storage space over 1500 miles away.

"Safe Home"--Just off the title, I knew this would be an unadorned love song with a searing chorus.  The bouncy riffs engendered some momentary doubt, although I was bobbing my head so thoroughly it didn't at all matter.  (Nagging thought, Is that a Chariots of Fire sample?, notwithstanding.)

A radio-friendly bowels-shifter you need hear only once.

"Any Place But Here"--So I was like, "Aha!  System of a Down!" but then I was like, "Aha!  Slightly-above average metal vocalist fronting an average metal band!"

"Nobody Knows Anything"--Including how to give a song a memorable title, apparently.

A wall of corrugated metal held up by Benante's occupied-not-busy beats.  This is what I want to hear when I sit down to write.

"Strap It On"--You mean a guitar, right?  Sigh.  Dimebag Darrell's solo starts at 1:55.  (You're welcome.)

The extended equivalent of Homer Simpson explaining how rock music attained scientifically-verifiable perfection in 1974.

"Black Dahlia"--The verses are old-school Anthrax--I'm happy!  The bridge is black metal--I'm confused and aroused, simultaneously! Anthrax with blast beats?  This type of song is perfect for John Bush's voice, so I can see why they shy away from this overall sound.  Why would you want your vocalist to mesh with the music?

"Cadillac Rock Box"--Dumb as a box of rocks, for sure.  Someone spiked the Jim Beam with Italian Coke (if you've never partaken of the cola from that country, let me assure you--fuck that) so this ends up sounding as crazed as a party hosted by Ken Griffin. 

"Taking the Music Back"--Filthy as a Ken Griffey Jr. drug test.

A valiant cadaver graft, but I don't hand out pretty certificates for effort.  Inevitably Anthrax would address the various colored tapes that kept them from doing what they once upon a time used to do quite well.  That they would enlist Roger Daltrey on backing vocals, not so predictable.  Yes, Roger Daltrey from the Who.  Scott's girlfriend's mother knew the Daltreys quite well and set up a dinner date and Rog is all, "I'd love to lend a hand on your band's next record, Scotty!"  and that's that.  It's all about who you know.

"Crash"--The anger is legitimate.  My anger.

"Think About An End"--Don't tempt me, fuckers!

Anthrax take a turn for the deliriously sordid with a tune concerning the havoc a venereal disease wreaks upon the personal plumbing of a careless man.  Scott Ian almost named this "Give Me Syphilis Or Give Me Death" but a make-up artist for VH-1 told him that wasn't a very likable title.  He thanked her for the input, and then proceeded to talk about Metallica, Madonna and Mr. Potato Head for an hour straight.

"W.C.F.Y.A."--What a long-ass four minutes.

"The mind can atrophy/Such mediocrity."  Self-awareness is a terrible thing to waste.

John Bush's less-be-more approach puts me in mind of that creepy scruff who used to hang out at the library and offer me bubblegum despite the fact I was in high school and would've much rather had pizza.  Beanpole-skinny, sunken cheeks, trucker cap decorated with stains from many sources, mustache that looked like it was composed of both natural and synthetic hairs--man I do not miss my teenage years at all.



Five years.  Five years Anthrax made their fans wait and all they come back with is some nice Alex Ross cover art and like two good songs.  Their first album of the new century and they're still fellating younger bands at the expense of their musical identity.  Don't cry for Danny Spitz, he's off fixing timepieces for Jesus.  Joey Belladonna, he's keeping busy with solo stuff.  Meanwhile their old band is stumbling and bumbling their way, gutlessly and guilelessly, into uselessness. 

Stop Sign

VOLUME 8: THE THREAT IS REAL
7/21/1998

I attempted reviewing this album in the style of S.O.D. vocalist (and long-time Anthrax associate/nemesis) Billy Milano, but my fingers cramped up in both protest and pain.

My urge to adopt someone else's voice while trying to pass it off as my own…can't imagine where that came from.

"Crush"--Not as in "pressing between two bodies."  As in, "harboring a deep affection for."  Hearts and diamonds to you, Spanish panthers.

The mimicry is solid, and the chorus clings to me like a stray kitten, but overall I can't help but feel disheartened.  From a new band, "Crush" would still seem like a highly derivative song, but I'd be much more willing to slice the slack.  I mean, if you're going to come onto the scene sounding like an established act, might as well show off your good taste.  But when it comes from a band that's been around for nearly fifteen years, it suggests a lack of focus at best, and at worst, a shame-free willingness to bend over and make all the right noises.

"Catharsis"--A vocalist really should not sound so angry with such a cool melody, but I'll never figure out John Bush. (Dude, none of this music hurt anyone you love.)   Joey woulda owned this chorus, woulda summoned four well-groomed devils and four shabby angels to let the natural order of things commence, and this woulda been a much better song for his effortless touch.

Still one of the best Foo Fighters songs I've ever heard, though.

"Inside Out"--Acoustic guitar twitches evoke a black and white picture of a prairie.  Band barfs out a great Pantera riff.  Oh, you think I should quit referencing the Cowboys From Hell?  I'd like Anthrax to quit pandering and release a record that doesn't remind me of better music I could be listening to/writing about.

Oh, and guess who's back to lay down some instantly-recognizable leads for his good buddies?

"I've eaten from the insane root that imprisons reason."  Even funnier than these lyrics is Bush's Layne Staley impression.

"Piss N Vinegar"--"This ain't no peace train."  No doubt.  That's an okay song, for one.

"604"--A 35-second ode to some fat woman, S.O.D.-style.  "Can't stop eating, she's so fat/6-0-4/Katrina!"  Anthrax are clearly condemning this mystery blob of breaking the levees in New Orleans seven years before it happened.  Clearly, Anthrax are Illuminati.

Y'know, the number "8" used to be called "One Fat Lady" in bingo-speak, back in the days before people worried themselves sick about seeming insensitive.

Hmm…no.  No.  That's not it.  There is no interesting story behind this song.

"Toast to the Extras"--A country & western change of pace.  Harmonica is detectable throughout.  Help.

I thought Metallica did an uncoordinated hokey-pokey on the corpse of thrash metal with "Mama Said."  "Toast to the Extras" fucking line dances on that bitch.

If music be the food of life, this surely be the botulism.

"Born Again Idiot"--I much prefer when uninspired-ass Anthrax halfheartedly mimics a metal band, as opposed to aping an alternative one.  Emotion has always suited them sharper than distortion.

Dimebag Darrell is the only thing keeping me from grabbing the dopamine.

"Killing Box"--Wholly hollow.  With guest appearance by Phil Anselmo.  Good God, can I just tag in a Pantera record for this review series?

"Harm's Way"--Yeah!  Who's ready to fall asleep in here tonight?

Cruising the trash stratum for some creative spark, Anthrax return with a song that is every bit as satisfying to the palate as a meal of salt water taffy and pretzel sticks.  (What flavor taffy?   It does not matter.)

"Hog Tied"--A song carefully crafted to appeal to a key demographic:  deaf people.  (They did buy a lot of records back then.)

"I get off on laughing/It's like the biggest orgasm."

Remind me to never tell a joke around John Bush.

"Big Fat"--'Bout time one of the Big 4 wrote me a theme song! (Well, me in 1998, but still.)  Oh Anthrax, you'd do the Truffle Shuffle for a half-melted candy bar at this point in your career.

"Cupajoe"--Yet another sub-minute S.O.D. tribute waste of space.  This woulda been the worst thing on Attack of the Killer B's, and might I remind you, Attack of the Killer B's is the home of "Startin' Up A Posse."

I like milk with my cupajoe, unless Anthrax is serving.  Then I'll take "Milk" over "Cupajoe."

"Alpha Male"--I don't need sexualized Anthrax.  There's enough eroticism emanating naturally from chords, beats and breaths, the holy trinity of rock music.  You don't need to wipe your balls with your bare hands and then start playing, guys. 

"Revel in our sated lust/Open your eyes and watch me bust."

There is no more devastating of a mood-killer in the bedroom (metaphorical or actual) than to look a man dead-on as he's climaxing.  He might find it a turn-on at first, but I guarantee he won't be very happy when his partner starts laughing.  Poor guys.  You only get the one orgasm per session, and your facial contortions make it seem like you're trying to work out a particularly complicated math problem the whole time.  Whereas the female orgasm is a myotonic splendor that changes lives.

"Stealing From a Thief/Pieces"--Y'all steal from the guys who stole from Exhorder.  Ain't a thing new in any house under the sun.

"Pieces" is a ballad bonus track with bassist Frank Bello on vocals.  This is not some novelty turn; "Pieces" concerns Bello's younger brother Anthony, who in 1996 was murdered outside of his girlfriend's Brooklyn apartment.  I hereby invoke the "Tears In Heaven" rule, and argue that not all art demands critical comment.



When Kerry King contributed to Pantera's "Goddamn Electric," it was great because it sounded like Kerry King playing on a Pantera song.  Not Kerry King ripping off a quick solo for some Slayer wannabes.  Whenever Pantera had a hankering to play a Slayer song, they played an actual Slayer song.  They didn't shamelessly swipe their sound.  Say what you will about Pantera, they never tried to fool their fans.

Anthrax have been some foolers these past couple albums.  Part of their appeal was their striking energy both on record and on stage.  They were the only Big 4 band that could legitimately be described as "fun" (a quality which won them their fair share of detractors, who think metal is serious goddamn business).  You can't wear shorts and cut goofy white-boy raps all your life.  People age.  They mature.  Hopefully, they never stop having fun.  The things from which they glean enjoyment are sure to change--for some people of a certain age, a nice easy crap is a thing of beauty--but you should never outgrow the need to laugh.

Especially when you sign with independent Ignition Records for your eighth album, only to have them declare bankruptcy shortly after releasing your eighth album.  (No doubt they blew most of the budget on that cover.)

I can't even laugh listening to Volume 8.  It is an album unblemished by originality.  I can throw my hands up into the air in frustration.  Shake my head in disbelief.  Stare off into space as I realize next week I'll be writing about two albums from two other bands that make this album sound like Axis:  Bold As Love. 

Vulgar Display of Pandering

STOMP 442   
10/24/1995

Where's the friggin' logo?!

Yet another longtime member splits the scene, as after eleven years Dan Spitz realized that the life of a born-again watch repairman would not only allow him to continue providing for his growing family, but would also allow him to spend more time with said family.  Enter Spitz's tech Paul Crook on lead for most of the songs (although he would never be considered an official member of the band), and very special guest Dimebag Darrell on others.  Quite the coup for Anthrax, as Pantera were shit-hot, having taken heavy music back to the top of the American charts with 1994's diamond-studded ball-buster Far Beyond Driven.  Their success generated a flood of new bands who shamelessly aped their tight, hefty grooves without expectation of paying any real dues on their way to the top.  That's to be expected.  But to hear a member of the old guard behave so slavishly, well, it's disheartening.  It's Stomp 442.

"Random Acts of Senseless Violence"--Inspired by the 1993 spree murder on the LIRR.  The cheeky, lathered-up lick is just a tease.  Also, a cock.  Twenty seconds in, John Bush yells out either "fu-core!" or "poop-car!"  I'm not sure what either Fu Schnickens or PT Cruisers have to do with such an intense subject, but remember:  ours is not to wonder why.  Ours is to appear erudite by quoting from a poem. 

Despite the chorus being a poor attempt at Phil Anselmo's "deep whisper" technique, I like "Random Acts" okay.  Paul's solo combines the best of Kerry King and Dan Spitz in one fifteen-second run. 

"Fueled"--Helmet with John Bush singing!  (Hey, you know who else once did a song that was Helmet with a different vocalist?) 

"Bukowski's on my shoulder."  Mine too.  Telling me turn this crap off and start kicking the Dark Companion in his ass.  Put my legs, hips and ass into it.  No fire to be feared in these lines.

"King Size"--Blesses us with Dimebag and curses us with a "warn ya/California" scheme.  Motherfuckers, that is the same crap that put the Red Hot Chili Peppers on my shitlist forever.  Tread careful.

Does "King Size" rock?  Eh, I think it just pebbles.  The few flashes of light occur when I'm unable to discern individual sonic elements.  (I love American goulash, especially with cheese.)

"Riding Shotgun"--The first four lines are a superb summation of the band's state at that time.  Nothing innately wrong with fanboy-ing, especially not over Pantera.  Pantera were one of the greats. 

There is something screwy about, say, scarring up your own face just to reap the benefits of plastic surgery.  Christ, this rips off not only "I'm Broken" but "Scentless Apprentice" as well.

Darrell provides soulful screeches and squeals, and I hope his passion and proficiency made the Anthrax guys feel like quitting. 

(In 2006, Dan Spitz gave an interview wherein he claimed that tapes of his lead parts were copied by both Paul Crook and Dimebag Darrell for this album.  I dunno about Paul, but Dime's contributions are too redolent of, y'know, his own style to convince me that he was just following a leader.)

"Perpetual Motion"--I would prefer to analyze canine flatulence than listen to this again.

"In a Zone"--The sound of off-white noise, chug-scrape chug-scrape.  Bush does okay as the weary, belligerent antagonist, while his mates do equally okay with the old trinkets scattered around the apartment. 

"Nothing"--The sun is out!  What a great day to step outside and keep on going till you decide to head back home.  I mean, if you have the free time, why the hell not?  Refreshed mind, reinvigorated soul.

Then, no more than twenty feet from your doorstep, a bird shits on your shorts.  And the colors completely clash. 

"American Pompeii"--Five minutes of blither-blather, just bury me face-first in my own feces already.  Let's attack the futility of nostalgia with generic-ass heavy rock!  John Bush is such a goddamn try-hard.  As of this song, I officially came down sick of his chest-first/hair-second "vocal style."

"Drop the Ball"--The recurring riff is two chalkboards fucking on a bed of nails.  Those of you who know the breadths and depths of my musical tastes know that I intend that to be a complimentary remark.

"Tester"--Anthrax feel the sudden urge to grip their nuts and swagger 'round the new guys!  They fancy themselves real fuckin' bad-ass, but in actuality they look buzzed on Schlitz and barbiturates.  Pretty audacious regardless, considering these Big Apple vets have "re-invented" their sound by borrowing liberally from some Texas youngbloods.

"Bare"--The fellas take us out with a tender love ballad that does not end in vehicular tragedy.  Unfortunately, the fact that it eventually ends is the only good thing about "Bare."  An example in how to sound "effortless" in all the wrong ways.



Anthrax were very mad when their label, Elektra Records, did not promote Stomp 442 to their satisfaction, resulting in the album selling 400,000 fewer copies than Sound of White Noise.  So they took their giant ball and naked guy and went to Ignition Records for their next effort. 

Far be it from me to defend major labels, but in this case Elektra was just trying to preserve multiple legacies at once.  After a great debut with John Bush at the mic, Anthrax are about to lose the entire plot.

It's A White Thing, You Wouldn't Understand

SOUND OF WHITE NOISE
5/25/1993

Three years between studio albums?  What'cha been up to, Anthrax?

In July 1991, they release an odds'n'sods record called Attack of the Killer B's.  In addition to covers, and live selections, the album featured two rap-rock songs:  a remake of "I'm the Man" and a cover of Public Enemy's classic "Bring the Noise" that featured P.E. themselves.  Scott Ian had been a fan of the duo since their first album, and was frequently photographed wearing their iconic "black man in the crosshairs" logo shirt.  The fans who approached Ian and asked why he listened to "that nigger music" surely shit half their body weight out onto their feet when they heard this monster. 

But the collaboration was not that far-fetched.  Chuck D was so enamored at the idea of this big-name metal band unabashedly broadcasting the P.E. brand to their disaffected supporters, that he name-dropped the group on "Bring the Noise," which first appeared on their legit-classic second album, It Takes a Nation of Millions To Hold Us Back (the same album that sampled Slayer, you may recall).  So it made more sense than a little to have the two acts join forces.  Despite the misgivings of narrow-minds (to be found in both fanbases, let's be honest), the song was such a success that they toured together behind it, ending every show with their boundary-busting hook-up. 

"Walk This Way" sucks, it has always sucked, and never bring it up around me.

Where does a band go after that?  Well, first thing you do is, you fire the singer.  Unhappy with Joey Belladonna's personality and what they deemed to be his lightweight performances, Scott Ian and Charlie Benante sought out John Bush, known to fans not only for his tenure in Armored Saint, but also as the guy who turned down Metallica when they approached him in the early 80s about handling vocal duties.  Eager to beef up their sound even more, the band hired producer Dave Jerden, known for his work with Alice In Chains and Jane's Addiction.  Rap songs?  New guy?  Grunge? 

The overall sound was affected for both the sake of their new singer and for the new musical landscape.  Grunge was still going strong, power was preferred over precision, and Anthrax made the decision to sweeten a simmering pot. 

"Potter's Field"--Well, I liked this 'un right off the bat, before I heard note one. 

There are common graves all across this great land, but perhaps the most notorious is on New York's Hart Island, which stretches for 101 acres.  Nearly a million bodies are buried there, a full third of them infants.  The others are poor unfortunate shells whose loved ones couldn't pay for a proper burial--and those who had no loved ones to even be bothered with such things.

The track is suitably heavy for the subject matter, but not particularly engaging until Dan Spitz pulls off one of his more dynamic turns on lead guitar, followed by the main riff crushing back into the picture. It's the very same part I haven't been shaken by the whole damn song but somehow, just being prefaced by a scorcher solo and turbulent drum fills suddenly makes it demi-godly.

"Only"--The first single was also the first song they wrote with John Bush.  His raspy gifts are on full display here, blending superbly with the low-key dissonance of the music.  When it comes to songs bemoaning the flightiness of broads, I'll take "Only" over "Finale" on any day, any calendar, any culture.*

"Room For One More"--Bush has this, um, cute vocal quirk where he sometimes adds a quick "yuh" sound (short for "yeah") at the beginning of a word.  Hence, there is "Y'always room for one more." 

Anthrax are not going for "noise" in the sense that the Incapacitants are.  "White noise" can be a disorienting sound, but that's not applicable here either.  (It can also be used as a sleep aid, which the band would not explore until their next several albums.)  This stuff is just metal music.  No longer thrash, but nothing short of heavy regardless. With prolonged exposure, so-called "noise" becomes part of the everyday soundtrack. 

Oh blah blah, is "Room For One More" a good song or not?  Are Rice Krispies crunchy even in milk? 

"Packaged Rebellion"--I've spied some distaste for this one…too poppy or too grunge-y, depending on the source.  I give it credit for having some nice leads--I'm noticing Spitz more on four songs here than I have over the last five albums. 

I don't suit up to uncover the facile "you" so persistently addressed.  2014 and I don't' care about much here save for that fan-damn twinner starting up at 4:45.  Something about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I just can never resist…ate 'em every day in the nuthouse.

"Hy Pro Glo"--Seems like we got us a pulse-pounding game of hopscotch here!  Jumping down on glass shards and gravel has Johnny doing some weird Axl-esque utterances….thankfully the insanity is brief.

Never tell a woman she has a "hy pro glo."  It will never go well.  If she knows what you mean, you'll get smacked up.  If she doesn't know what you mean, and therefore doesn't react, your joke is ruined.  If she doesn't know what you mean, and decides to act all flattered and shit, congratulations you just made a dumb girl feel good about being dumb and you have your little laugh at her expense. 

Oh no, the madness is back!  The "I"s, they without fail make me swat at the invisible mosquitoes flitting around my fat head.

"Invisible"--The angriest moments of the album are here.  One man's vigorously tested faith results in bitter recriminations and sour dispositions.   Trying to find God with a phase shifter?  John really is inspiring you guys to new levels of confidence and power!

"1000 Points of Hate"--Good to stomp and scream along to whenever your mind is awash in thoughts of that special someone.  Also, nice Living Colour reference. 

"Black Lodge"--I wouldn't expect a gorgeous rumination on in-progress, inexorable disintegration from the same dudes who made a "thing" of wearing shorts.  But here we are, now as then.

Hand it to the band, or at least Scott and Charlie--they loved the TV show Twin Peaks (at least the first season) and were absolutely nuts over Angelo Badalamenti's soundtrack work.  So they write a song, call it "Black Lodge" in honor of their favorite show, and get Angelo himself (along with Vincent Bell) to add synthesizer, orchestration, and tremolo guitar.  The result is a spaghetti Western dream state. 

Let not the lyrics lead you astray ("My love for you knows no distance"), "Black Lodge" is romantic in the way that a poet at the river's edge, scribbling down his last stanzas, laying the notebook on the grass and then walking into the water is romantic.  Or someone coming up to you with a package and announcing "I love you so much I carved your face out of a log I found somewhere."  But my heart is almost always set to high receptivity, so I'm invariably sucked into this dark vortex. 

"C11 H17 N2 O2 SN2"--Or, "sodium pentathol."  Or, "truth serum."  Or, "veritaserum."  Or, "J.K. Rowling needs to get a fucking diary already." 

Spelling out the chemical formula was impressive in those pre-Wikipedia days, y'all, they had to consult a book! 

Another explicit condemnation of religious fervor, only this time tackling the minions more so than the Man.  The message is rugged, responsible individualism.  No tolerance for sluggards and slaggers. 

I have never hated a song title more  And I never hated it till I had to write, then type it out.  Luckily this is Class-A from toes to nose.  Who doesn't enjoy telling some self-righteous know-nothing where to stick it?  Most people are like Slinkys, really--they don't do a damn thing, but they always make you smile when you push them down the stairs. 

"Burst"--The cartoon-y xylophone chimes give way to some punks writing a book called "102 Things To Do With Rusted Chrome."  I can't imagine Joey Belladonna over music like this without envisioning Steve Perry emoting on a dock. 

Took years for me to catch the crack-addled earthworm cries during the "contradiction" sections.

"This Is Not An Exit"--The good news is, Anthrax are still reading fiction!  The gooder news is, they've moved beyond Stephen King!  American Psycho doesn't count nihilistic German nuns among its cast of characters, but hey, a quality read is a joy forever. 

John nails the ramblings of a maniac with great confidence and clarity.  Chilling in some parts, believable all around.  (Again, entrust this to Belladonna and we're left with a guy waiting for Sherry to come back.)  The main riff, wooo.  "Chopsticks" frozen in carbonite.  I feel like I rode a bike on the highway and lived to tell.



With the seeds sown for mainstream success, what did Anthrax actually reap?  A gold record.  Hmm.  But they also made a good record, a damn good record.  They tweaked their fundamental sound without becoming another, shittier band entirely.  No mean feat, that.  What's probably more jarring, to me anyway, is the slight but significant lyrical shift.  Whereas in the past Anthrax pounded on about the importance of caring for your fellow man, Sound of White Noise stops just short of saying "Guess what, fuck all y'all.  Ray Bolger's lookin' out for Ray Bolger."  The increasing acrimony is hard to ignore.



*James Hetfield wants to go hunting with this song, he loves it so much.  He told the members of Anthrax it was "a perfect song."  Which sounds like a great compliment until you find out James Hetfield's favorite songs are.  I still hold out hope he just couldn't be bothered to make a real list, turned on a classic rock radio station, and wrote down the first ten songs they played. 

Refuse To Lose

PERSISTENCE OF TIME
8/21/90

Completion of Anthrax's fifth album was delayed in late January 1990 when a structure fire destroyed their studio and over $100,000 worth of equipment.  They were able to resume work the next month.

You know what helps a band make their money back?  Concerts.  Spring 1991 Anthrax secured a slot on the North American leg of the so-called "Clash of the Titans" tour.  Alongside their Big Buddies Megadeth and Slayer (and Alice In Chains fulfilling the role of "band that plays while audience yells 'SLAYYYYYEEEERRR!'"), Anthrax played fifty shows in just under two months, keeping their profile high and even garnering extensive coverage in publications that traditionally ignored heavy music.  (I used to own the print copy of that issue, by the by.)

All in support of their most mature work to date.  Sometimes things just come together, yes?

"Time"--What a title.  No pretension, no flourish, no ill-advised attempts at cleverness.  Time stands alone.  Friend, foe, acquaintance, occasional co-conspirator, but never a well-wisher.

The ticking is a cliche, sure; good artists get the cliches to work for them, even if it costs a few pints of blood.  Anthrax are clearly past the puerility of their previous long player, and this shift in mood is so welcome I want to greet it at the door with a hot peach pie. 

Where's Not Man?  Not here. 

"Blood"--Best thing 'bout "Blood," it compelled me to look up the word "circumscribe."

Scott Ian's co-vocals are not jibing for me.  Furthermore the lyrics are lazy.  But wouldn't you know--both of these beefs are rectified on the very next track.

"Keep It In the Family"--Ingrained prejudices get the full-time business--a firm, dry palm to a drooling motormouth.  Technically a song, actually an earnest message chalked out on a brick wall. 

Among los cuatro grandes del thrash metal, Anthrax have always been the most socially-aware, the most solicitous towards their fellow man.  Given their roots in NYC, and love for that city's legendary hardcore scene, what with its emphasis on strength in numbers, that's no surprise.  But while the intensity of their feelings hasn't abated, their songs are now less concerned with keeping spirits up among the troops, and more about informing the enemy how much they suck.  Impatience and recalcitrance ooze out from between the cracks in the sidewalk.  Watch yer step.

(Credit also for not censoring "kikes" and "niggers" from the lyrics.  Don't just say that certain words are ugly.  Say the words.  Let everyone see and hear for themselves how revolting these epithets are.)

"In My World"--Best-known as the song Anthrax "played" during their cameo on Married…With Children, but to thousands of high school kids, this was the poetry of anomie.  Just put it on, turn it up, scowl and sing.

I'm not afraid
I am not afraid
Nothing touches me
I'm a walking razor blade

"Gridlock"--Sci-fi metal.  The planet glows more pink than red, but in terms of overall health, that is a positive thing.  So is righteous vengeance.  Heads up, Neptune, 'cause Pluto has a lot of fans that possess long memories.

"Intro To Reality"--One of the most chilling episodes of The Twilight Zone did not have to invent or imagine a unique world of terror.  "Death's Head Revisited" gave the viewer a look at a former SS captain brought to justice for his unrepentant contributions to one of the most loathsome blights to afflict humanity.  Instead of imprisonment, or death, he is ordered to a never-ending mental torment which puts him right there in the Dachau concentration camp, in the minds of his victims as they suffer unspeakable pain.  No aliens, no talking dolls…just history, refusing to be forgotten, refusing to be repeated. 

"Intro To Reality" begins with a sample of dialogue from the episode, and as the peals of the captain's laughter fade into the ether, we're treated to a wordless meditation that is stirring, gleaming, and fully aware.  The message is implicit:  It's one thing to wake up, and quite another to open your eyes. 

"Belly of the Beast"--The anti-"Angel of Death," in that it is an unflinching indictment of the SS and the madness it indulged with a wicked glee.  (The chorus is deceptively catchy, which is kinda the point.)  I'm not a fan of the echo vox effect, but I am a mega fan of the harmonizing in the chorus, which sounds more than a little like justice. 

"Got the Time"--There's that word again.

I'm very impressed by Frank Bello's bass-playing throughout the whole album.  Great bubbly tone, proficiency sans pretentiousness, he's really showing up without showing off.  "Got the Time" is the best showcase for his nimble fingers, but the whole band takes Joe Jackson's punkish Mad Hatter, feed him some amphetamines and make the track wholly theirs while he's off snorting diced carrots off the face of his pocket watch. 

"H8red"--Take "Keep It In the Family."  Smear some resin on that foul fella.  Hand it some books to read, and don't just pull from one or two sections, huh?  Let's get some variety up in this bitch.

Let that animosity build steadily--we want it to stick around, after all, stick a flag in the ground and claim fertile land.  Confrontation is the key to success.  Allow no grievance to stay silenced.  Work the angles.  Turn the corners.  Hit the targets. 

Time is not your friend. 

Life and death as words they don't mean shit.

"One Man Stands"--And must remain standing.

1989's Tiananmen Square protests in Beijing, China inspired this song, but the themes of historical perspective and moral strength manifest into physical activism make "One Man Stands" a snug fit alongside "Belly of the Beast."  Both tracks are virtual stone monuments to man at his best and worst.  Whether our intentions are to do ill or to do good, the compulsory factor is the same:  time. 

"Discharge"--A poorly-aged bickerspit, "Discharge" is basically the homeless dude's "Gung Ho."  It's a relentless end-piece, I'll give it that with no hesitation.  (Pretty sure the alleged drum fills are taken from a recording of a plumber and his tools falling down a metal staircase.)  Sometimes I listen the whole way through; other times I don't make it past verse one.  Depends on how angry I'm feeling. 



Despite the underwhelming ending, Persistence of Time remains my favorite Anthrax album.  The highs are slapping cheeks with Powdered Toast Man, while the lows just don't matter.  The loyals snatched it up as expected, garnering the boys another gold plaque, and even those tight-asses on the Grammy committee nodded in their general direction. 

No book reports.  No shorts that could be more accurately described as "jams."  No creepy uncle of the Natty Boh logo as their mascot.  No mascots, period.  Just…

Time and life
Life and time
One day I'll get what's mine
Through the persistence of time

Send In the Clowns

STATE OF EUPHORIA
9/18/1988

1987 was a great year for thrash metal icons crossing over into hip hop.  First there was Kerry King called upon to provide the guitar solo for "No Sleep Till Brooklyn," from the Beastie Boys' infamous debut Licensed To Ill, a performance which is on the shortlist for Best Gratuitous Solo By a Famed Rock Guitarist in a Non-Rock Song (right alongside Skunk Baxter's work on "Hot Stuff," and Eddie Van Halen's monumental string-scorching on "Beat It.")  Then Anthrax up and recorded one of the few rap-rock hybrids worth listening to, and definitely the only one with a fucking El Duce reference.

"I'm the Man" was a goofball, Beasties-style one-off that the group turned into an EP that crazily enough went platinum.  Anthrax's comedic side may have turned off some purists, but clearly there was a sizable audience for their forays into foolishness.

Even the one that were supposed to be serious.

I could tell, even at the age of twelve.  It was the cover.  The saying goes, "You can't judge a book by its cover," but yeah, that applies to books.  This is an album.  I'm perilously close to turning into an incredibly mixed-up zombie just recalling State of Euphoria's cover.

Why are there multiple aggrieved bro-heads?  Upon careful observation, those aren't renderings of the individual band members, and may very well be the same bro.  And why so angry to begin with?  Is it because the state flag of New Mexico has turned into a pinwheel?

The back cover is little improvement, further solidifying Anthrax as the court jesters of thrash metal.  Mad Magazine caricaturist Mort Drucker doodled the band mascot, known as Not-Man, alongside the Shorts-Boys (with a  pecky rooster keeping watch near Dan Spitz's sneakers).  While this was certainly a great thrill for Anthrax, it doesn't do anything to quash the ambivalence engendered by the front cover.

Opening up the packaging confirms the doom.  The boys compiled "The List," a compilation of thank-worthy folks numbering in the thousands (or not, I dunno, my already-poor visual acuity dropped by the tens after just glancing at the damn thing).  This is/was standard album fare, shouting out various friends these men have made roamin' the country with one unique feature:  virtual illegibility.  Not only is the print eye-fuckingly small, but there are so many names that most orbs will tap out halfway through the section headlined "The Friends."

Scott Ian penned the lyrics, while Charlie Benante handled the music.  Clearly the muse for both men was parched.

"Be All, End All"--Cello does not make me think "all-conquering behemoth warrior."  But Anthrax love them some call-to-arms, and they've earned gargantuan goodwill with pep talks intended for the young people who've come to depend on their music to get through each day.

The faceless, pulseless "order of things," governing actions both potential and actual, can stop us dead.  We the people are not faceless, not pulseless, and everyone of us at a certain time needs a caring, thoughtful push in a better direction.  Songs like "Be All, End All" have been inspiration to people shunned and/or shamed by so-called family and friends.

So when the cello cycles around--on the heels of a stupendously melodic fade--I don't hear a cry to battle.  I hear an invitation to peace.

"Out of Sight, Out of Mind"--Either some subliminal diss action ("Take a riff, take a line") to a specific racket-gang of shark-biters, or a general displeasure to a number of rapid apes.

"Out of Sight" suffers from the same handicap that plagues most of SOE:  riffs that are okay in execution, but sorely lacking in charisma.  Trod-plod-pedestrian breakdown-reboot.

"Make Me Laugh"--Polemics towards preacher sure were popular in the 80s.  Metallica filled space on Master of Puppets two years prior with "Leper Messiah," and Slayer…well, they're Slayer.  'Thrax kinda let the lecherous likes of Swaggart and Baker off easy, calling out their duplicitous behaviors and shameless avarice with all the zeal of a sleeping snail.  They might as well have given us a four minute litany of motherfuckers begetting other motherfuckers.

The subdued "machine-gun riff" section occurs too late in the song, is too short, and I described it with the adjective "subdued."

"Antisocial"--I am proud to be antisocial.  Have you noticed society?

An emasculated cover of a song by the French punk band Trust.  I shouldn't have to tell y'all which card in the Uno deck this would be.

"Who Cares Wins"--Never will the phrase "There but for the grace of God" appear, sincerely, in a Slayer song.  The sentiment is grand, but nothing stops "Who Cares Wins" from sounding like the start of an 80s documentary on "the homeless problem."

"Now It's Dark"--By the length of five tractor trailers, here is the best State of Euphoria has to offer.  Scott Ian runs to a greater artist for inspiration yet again; this time, David Lynch's surrealist mystery masterpiece Blue Velvet, and more specifically the film's infamous villain Frank Booth.  The creep-bastard vibe is irresistible (women go crazy for "the fuckin' well-dressed man") and Anthrax sound like they're enjoying holding court by the gas tank as much as Frankie baby loves taking hits from it.

So much props to Charlie Benante for evincing the mind's descent into madness with nothing more than sticks, skins and shoes.

"Schism"--The intro is a fade-in, drums to boot, which Charlie B. certainly does.  (Ride the wave, man.)  The riff is mildly engaging in its buoyancy, but that's the issue.  "Mildly" is not a word I should use in these reviews when speaking  on the music.  This ain't Starland Vocal Band.

The chorus is hideous:  "Schism!  Sch-sch-sch schism!"  Jesus guys, you left the house with that on?

(In 2009, the word "schism" entered the public conscious briefly when the national sports media decided the troubles between Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brett Favre and the teams coaching staff were worth airing out.  The number of people who claimed ignorance of "schism" both depressed and amused me, because if a group of Noo Yawk thrashers with a jones for horror flicks and Married…With Children know the fucking word and what it means, it ain't exactly the exclusive property of Mensa members.)

"Misery Loves Company"--Anyone unfamiliar with the novel/film Misery is unlikely to find this musical book report very interesting.  Shouldn't a superlative work of art inspire someone to create their own work that is equal to or greater than, and not be satisfied until they have?  Joey Belladonna embodying Annie Wilkes does not jibe.  In fact, Joey for much of this whole album does not jibe.  Admittedly the lyrics leave him in the lurch: a lazy recitation of the superfan psychosis, wish fulfillment and gruesome fallout.  Kathy Bates could easily rock Joey and Dan to sleep in one-on-ones.  The other guys I make no guarantees, but them, I got money on.

DUN-DUN-DUN
DUN-DUN-DUN
chugga chugga chugga chugga
DOUBLE BASS ACTION!!

"13"--Hotels and apartments don't offer rooms or floors marked "13" for a reason.

"Finale"--An anti-love song that beseeches men to be men.  To wear the pants and soak the panties.  To remember that a good girlfriend will not always make a good wife.

"Finale" is also an anti-good song.  It is filled to bursting with all the freneticism that the ultimate track of a metal album should have, but it's wasted.

Or is it?  Am I not richer for hearing a bunch of dudes singing about a woman who doesn't "know (her) place" and then bemoaning how said woman "raped my mind"?

Such an oddly frat-brat way to end the record.

State of Euphoria does not quite qualify as an aural disaster.  Its reach exceeds its grasp, but the reach itself is not terribly long to begin with.  The devotees still bought it, earning the fellas another gold record, but its rare to see it cited as a favorite.  (Charlie Benante has gone on record naming SOE his least favorite Anthrax full-length.)  Dull, dumb, damn-near dispiriting enough to keep you from listening to music for 24 hours.  I was almost frightened to the point of trembling hands at the thought of what they would come up with next.

It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad Band

AMONG THE LIVING
3/22/87

Considered by scores of fans to be the Anthrax album to get, if your cheap ass is only getting one.

"Among the Living"--No trailers preceding the main attraction.  This movie requires close attention.  The usual sugary barrage of overly-animated figures voiced by overpriced celebrities, the tachycardia-inducing orchestral swells and stabs, the remakes, the adaptations, all are mercifully absent.  Showtime is go time is here is now.

The first shot to feature dialogue references a preceding film--comforting reassurance of self-preservation, or chillingly corny insecurity?  Within seconds, the popcorn-flavored butter you've been shoveling into your gullet begins to taste so metallic it practically washes itself down.

Dystopian tales require blurbs a-poppin' to convince the jaded.  "Gripping!"--"An emotional barnstormer!"--"A look into a future which may be closer than we think."  It also helps if these fragments of a blowjob also have some motions of truth to them.

What helps also is adapting an acclaimed best-selling novel.  What writer has had more of their works mutilated than Stephen King?  (I'm pretty sure that's a rhetorical question!)  1978's The Stand is one of my personal King favorites, the saga of a flu-like epidemic nicknamed "Captain Trips" which boasts a .994 killing average (and a psychosomatic response rate of 85%).  No song can match the relative majesty of the original story, but Anthrax do much better than just a cursory book report.  Dan Spitz and Scott Ian prove themselves chugger-muggers par excellence, and the uncle/nephew rhythm section is undeterrable.

This leaves Joey Belladonna, a gifted singer who struggles in spots with the demands of thrash metal music.  He lacks the commanding presence of a Tom Araya or James Hetfield, and can't rely on sheer "my-nuts-your-mouth" attitude such as what kept the likes of Dave Mustaine afloat.  His third verse shriekery is a superfluous nipple.

"Caught In a Mosh"--For an album that gets so much hype as an "old-school classic," Among the Living sure does peak early.  Maybe the best-known (certainly the best) song on the record, "Mosh" is the actual toxic waltz, taking fools and their foolishness to the back of the school, which is sometimes the only logical response to an untenable situation.

"I Am the Law"--The beginning is redolent of a sewage milkshake.  Best is when you belch it back up while riding the merry-go-round.  Everything else is guy stuff that puts me in a somnolent state.
  
"Efilnikufesin (N.F.L.)"--Anthrax have always been the outliers of the Big 4.  More in thrall of comics than Crowley, more likely to get horrendously sick from pizza and beer than dope, and more concerned with making sure fans realize they are the stars of their own shows.  Better to be your own hero than misdirect your worship towards numbskull entertainers destined to die young and leave a sad-looking trail of people who knew and loved and rooted for them.

But I have floated in the despondent sea long enough.   Let us play a game.  That game is called, "The Big 4--Which NFL Teams Are They?"

Slayer are the Oakland Raiders.  Iconic image, bad-ass name.  A championship legacy that has earned them a legion of diehard supporters reviled and revered by observers for their collective passion.  Dependent for decades on a decaying demon.

Metallica are the Dallas Cowboys, the so-called "America's Team," the squadron weighed down by bandwagon-jumpers and arrogant day-oner's who insist on owning everything with their goddamn logo slapped on it, and it just so happens that nearly everything has had their logo slapped on it!  Everything Metallica does instantly garners a wider spotlight than their peers, along with increased pressure to perform.

Megadeth are the Washington Redskins, a team with multiple titles that still somehow don't get their just due in history.  Maybe it's because they're owned by a douchefuck who doesn't realize how offensive nearly everything about him truly is.  In a rivalry with a team that hasn't really cared about them much in about twenty years.

And Anthrax?  Why, they're the Atlanta Falcons, a fun-loving bunch of birds who have managed a few magical seasons while still falling short of the pinnacle.  I mean as much as Among the Living is revered, it's pretty much Dave Hampton's last game of the 1972 season to me.

"A Skeleton in the Closet"--Another Stephen King-inspired tune (the novella Apt Pupil, which I have yet to read.  Though thanks to this song, I kinda got the gist of the plot...).  Jesus, this one has bones all over the house.  That verse riff is fierce, no sashay. 

"Indians"--Dated as a calendar.  The title is the most egregious example; the Iron Maiden rip-off intro is another.  Fucking hell, the hook actually says, "Cry for the Indians!" I remember hearing this for the first time with my brother and he laughed out loud at that chorus.  Meanwhile I'm silent in the passenger seat, thinking to myself, Wow, it's like his diaphragm can read my mind.

My dislike of "Indians" is really nothing to do with white dudes using their privileged position to speak up for an oppressed minority--though there are certain matters of taste to be considered--and more that the song is just hideous proof that some people will mosh to anything.  (That breakdown is throw-up compared to the likes of "Dead Embryonic Cells.")

"One World"--"Welcome to it," indeed.  Though I fear Anthrax's cries were for naught.  Unsubtle pleas for peace and understanding buoyed by a wicked gallop not even Joey Belladonna can undermine with his insistence on sacrificing clarity for histrionics. 

"A.D.I./Horror of It All"--The so-called "Arabian Douche Intro" is a gorgeous acoustic piece; makes this eight-minute tune a tenner easily because of it.  Male tactic of torpedoing sentimentality with crudity be damned!

What a gutwrencher.  How can you tell someone to keep on, keep on livin' when life as they know it ain't life as you know it, and may in fact no longer be bearable?  How can you talk about the future, and options, yet just stand there gaping when challenged to present some right there right then?

Every person is born to die.  Some people are born to die sooner than the accepted norm--"gone before their time," the saying goes, except maybe there's no such thing.  Interactions beyond human ken create (mostly) undetectable pathways that must be followed to the end.  The length, width and intersections of these roads all vary from journey to journey.  They are inalterable, and they are all the travel terrain we will know while in this particular vehicle.

"Imitation of Life"--Have you ever seen the movie this song is based on?  You haven't, because it wasn't.

A welcome shift to the fast(er) lane, all the better to bowl over those scummy suits.  Oh man, this song is about how lame the business side of music is?  Well, Anthrax still sound quite hungry.  And that's the thing for me.  How can this be their artistic peak when I hear a group still gaining momentum?  

Turn It On

SPREADING THE DISEASE
10/30/85

"Early on, I told Johnny Z that what I didn't like about Anthrax was Neil Turbin's vocals."  That's not me talking--that's radio and TV personality Eddie Trunk, whose influence over baby Anthrax was a factor in convincing the band that acquiring a new frontman would be good for its health.  Another factor was the growing enmity between Turbin and Scott Ian, with the former accusing the latter of wanting to be seen as the centerpiece of Anthrax despite being "merely" the rhythm guitarist.

Enter Joey Belladonna, a pop-loving young man with superlative vocal chops.  Able to scale soaring harmonic heights without coming off as second-hand, his presence provided Anthrax with much-needed personality without diluting the bands overall sonic power.  (That statement is of course subjective.  Some metal fans never cottoned to Joey's high-range histrionics.) 

Enter, as well, Charlie Benante's nephew Frank Bello on bass in place of a struggling Danny Lilker.

The new Anthrax debuted with the Armed and Dangerous EP to ratchet up the fervor for their sophomore full-length effort.  Or was this really their first go? 

"A.I.R."--So begins the Joey-era, with an anthem for all the newly-independent souls struggling with the overwhelming fear that adulthood, with all its goddamn responsibilities and expectations, will result in a spiritual death far before the physical one.  Well, Anthrax will have none of this fear business.

In addition to its status as a pummeling pep talk, "A.I.R." features the punk-inspired response vocals of Scott Ian that would become a 'Thrax trademark.  Joey is a bit high in the mix, but the music still crunches and rings, and already Fistful of Metal is a relic. 

Wicked, sirs.

"Lone Justice"--Comic books are one of those "guy" things that not even my notoriously tomboy self has ever gotten into.  Dunno why--love to read, love good art.  Maybe I cottoned to standard books instead because I crave endless text that forces me to draw my own panels and fill in my own colors.

So the saga of Judge Dredd--the hero at the center of "Lone Justice"--never moved me.  The song, however, does.  Chug-chug, brief escalating solo, then some wordy words.  If I picture Steve Perry at a ComiCon bringing his panel to a climax with an impromptu performance of "Only the Young," with each and every costumed soul crammed into the conference room on their weary feet singing their throats into temporary oblivion, more than a few fists pumping in defiant celebration of nerd-life--well, goddamn!  Kinda one of the best songs ever, then.

"Madhouse"--Of all the people who've ever claimed insanity, only Kenneth Bianchi was less convincing than Joey Belladonna.  Also, I think the "madhouse" in question is a metaphor for the planet Earth.  Whoa.

"SSC/Stand or Fall"--Technical bravado gives way to charmingly macho determination.  A shorter "A.I.R.," making it a tighter fighter.  In between strikes, "SSC" shows a cultivated defense as well:  self-reliance, belief, resistance to atrophy.

"The Enemy"--You know Ostrowski, Parsley, Amalek, Halabja.  Black War, Rwanda, Noakhali, and Bubi.  But do you recall the most famous genocide of all?

"The Enemy" is about the Holocaust.  And that's just kind of it.  A bland exposition of an infamous event.  "The final solution was mass genocide."  Fucking spoilers, though!

"Aftershock"--The only jolt to be had over the duration is that Joey can sing clearly with his nuts in a vise.  Clunky drums, hammer-bag guitars, this is how you treat a natural disaster?

"Armed and Dangerous"--The title track of the appetizer EP has aged wonderfully.  In fact, I like it even more now.

The disarmingly delicate plucks of the introduction is a perfect bed for Belladonna to lay back upon, hands closed behind the head in that classic pose indicating a troubled young man living in tumultuous times, just waiting for the explosion that will finally bring about change.

While "Armed and Dangerous" could be interpreted as an isolated lament, I've always imagined it as more than that.  I hear the story of a bloodthirsty criminal's realization, release and revenge.  Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak tonight!  I think.  Not sure where.  I know approximately none of us want to be around with this creep and his cronies exact stabby get-back on society.

"A blade in my left
Ooh a gun in my right
To beat you within an inch of your life"

Shooting is not an option.  Couldn't afford the bullets.  Intimidation is key.  Neil Turbin is given a co-writing credit, and I bet taxpayers' dollars to patrol cops' donuts he penned those lyrics.

"Medusa"--Anthrax also received some outside help for this track from the one and only Johnny Z (on the initial release of Spreading the Disease, Zazula was given sole credit; future pressings give credit to him and Anthrax.  Hmm?)

"Medusa" makes me think of my lifelong insecurities with my own appearance.  Fuck this song.  The lyrics are an exercise in dumbing down an encyclopedia entry.  No embellishments for the mythical malevolent icon, just more studying for the captain's exam.

"Evil stare will turn your flesh into stone…ooh, she'll suck you in."
Who listening to this song was unfamiliar with the legend of Medusa?  Shame, but only a little bit.  The guitars are suitably stony, the beats are crisp, but then here comes Joey eunuch-ing everything up.

Goddamn, that chorus makes me want to eat a window.

"Gung Ho"--One of Anthrax's very best, "Gung Ho" sounded impossibly fast to me as a young'un.  My ears have grown wiser, but some blast-beat jamboroos sacrifice craft for speed.  Not this'un.  Charlie Benante is driving the tank through town, then back around.

Unlike them other guys, Anthrax's wartime ditties are the kind of complete fucking blast where no one dies or has to leave a hospital missing a limb.  Less uniformed shells performing the depressing duties of a well-ordered machine, more rabid maniac humanoids thrashing at peak existence. 

The pre-chorus--"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"--is as perfect as the chorus is dunderheaded.  It's all gravy, though, for the well-whipped spuds.



Spreading the Disease was Anthrax's first album with a great vocalist, and thus also their first with an identity (Fistful of Metal could have been written and recorded by many bands of the time).  Still not great, but definitely a step in the right direction.  And don't cry for Neil Turbin!  After his dismissal, he went on to do...various things.  I mean, he's still alive, what more could you ask?

I Mean Like It Bought Itself Dinner

FISTFUL OF METAL
2/1984

Do I really need to say that Fistful of Metal has one of metal's all-time classic album covers?  For a long time (longer than I should admit) I wondered if that was a decapitated head on the receiving end, but no, clearly can't be--the face is quite vexed, with brow furrowed fiercely, the forehead lines deep as ditches.  The recipient of this fearsome blow is among the living, and pissed.  I'd be pissed as well, somebody just strolled on up and punched the chocolate milk outta my mouth.  Times is hard.

"Deathrider"--The first song of Anthrax's first album is utterly dated, but how surprising is that?  And how does that make it empirically bad?  An introductory song should function above all as an introduction.  It should give a fair and powerful impression of an artist's modus operandi.  By that criteria, "Deathrider" is a success.  Guitarist Scott Ian and drummer Charlie Benante are already several steps ahead of the average at their respective instruments, Benante especially with dry-skinned tom rolls and double-bass kicks.

Then there is the matter of Neil Turbin. 

There is a shortlist for the honor of greatest frontman in the history of metal music--vocal ability and charisma ne plus ultra.  Ozzy, Dio, Bruce Dickinson, and my personal favorite, Rob Halford.  Their insane ranges and imperious bearings inspired countless schlubs and apt pupils.  But for every Phil Anselmo, there are fifteen Neil Turbins.  Well-meaning frontmen who couldn't mature from mimicry.  The few times on Fistful that Turbin does pull of a serviceable Halford--on "Deathrider," for example--it seems accidental. 

"Metal Thrashing Mad"--By the second song I realized that if I am to enjoy this album, it will be down to how well I can tolerate the vocalist.  Lucky everybody, "Metal Thrashing Mad" is the best track here (by a decent pace), an anthem for boys and the cars they transfer their throbbing urges to.  This song kicks so much bubblegum that I can overlook Turbin making "steel" a two-syllable word.

"I'm Eighteen"--Alice Cooper's classic for boys and the adulthood they awkwardly transition into.  Anthrax don't make it their own, not because it ain't but because they can't.

"Panic"--Cars…sex…goddamn these are some ugly-ass mechanics.  The toolbox is at least proper. 

Metal dudes and their hormones manifest in galloping riffs, muted strums, hammer-ons, scale runs, blast beats and octave pops.  None of that stuff is sexy.

"Wheels are gonna spin/Asses gonna shake."  That is not sexy either.  Really, the closest I come to being aroused by anything in "Panic" is when Scott Ian and second guitarist Dan Spitz do their Judas Priest imitation.

"Subjugator"--The Word of the Day calendar bore bountiful fruit on that day!  The title is so irrefutably metal, the transition at 1:05 is so irrefutably metal, the lick two and a half minutes in is…molten.  Basically, a buncha solos with incidental vocals.  This shovel looks fine in my hands.

"Soldiers of Metal"--Second song to have "metal" in the title, but it's arguable the least metal track here.  Not that it's an acoustic ballad or anything--it follows the road more traveled by.  Everything on display is generic.  If this album were the cereal aisle at a grocery store, "Metal Thrashing Mad" is the Rice Krispies and "Soldiers of Metal" is the Riced Crispies.

"Death From Above"--Immediately put me in mind of the Screaming For Vengeance cover.  (I'm sorry, but this album is like an altar boy's body:  the Priest is all over it.)

"Die by the sword"?  Oh crap, now I'm distracted by Slayer thoughts!  The dastardly Slayer thoughts! 

Once I get past the past, "Death From Above" appears a fully-formed scorcher.  Charlie Benante swoops down onto the throne like a caped steel eagle with laser-shooting eyes and diamond-encrusted talons.  Ian and Spitz have already landed, and the lambs are currently cooking.  Neil Turbin's scary ass is stuck in poorly-drawn comic book land.  Bassist Danny Lilker takes comfort in the fact that he got two classic songs out of his time.

"Anthrax"--If you're going to christen a song after yourself, it should hit at least 8 of the 10 bullet points to identify a future serial killer.  Sure enough, the bookend riffage is kicking dogs and setting their houses aflame.  In between, however, is some merely misdemeanor behavior.

"Across the River"--These ain't madmen, they're just pissed the cops won't let 'em skateboard in the park after 6 PM.  Truly not your grandma's music, this instrumental is enjoyable and offers tantalizing hints as to the band's future capabilities.  1:04 to 1:18 must be singled out for praise, as it is one of my favorite solos by any of the Big 4.  (Turn fourteen seconds in fifty-six, it's worth your time.)

"Howling Furies"--A steaming swamp surrounded by piles of dirt and wooden posts with initialed hearts.  The foreboding infused not by the singer's high-school talent show aura, but rather the squealing solos of Spitz.





Of the Big 4 debuts, Fistful of Metal has aged the poorest, and it's really not an argument worth having.  The standard subject matter--death, war, evil--is not the issue, because if you eliminated those topics as fodder for songs, the entire thrash metal genre would not exist.  Ultimately, it's the marginal, amateurish vocals that keeps this from consideration as a truly great album.  Neil Turbin evoked Rob Halford, he evoked Bruce Dickinson, and I'm sure he evoked Ronnie James Dio in the studio laying these tracks down, but never ever once does he evoke Neil Turbin.  In aping the guerillas without deigning to add a splash of his own style, he did a great disservice to himself and his bandmates.  If Anthrax had recorded another album with Turbin at the helm, it likely would have been their last one.

Time for some action.