I Noticed A New Anthrax Song Today, Oh Boy

 And it reminded me...I haven't reviewed the last-ever Megadeth album yet. 

 

MEGADETH

1/23/2006

 

After 43 years, Dave Mustaine decided full-length #17 would be the final one. The legacy of Megadeth is "The Band That Wasn't Metallica," thanks in large part to Mustaine himself. No matter the millions sold, no matter the musicians influenced, no matter the listeners impressed, no matter the awards garnered, Dave could not shut up about the pain of being thrown on/under the bus by James and Lars. 

So of course the last song on their last album is a Metallica classic. 

"Tipping Point"--The first song is the first single is the best song, in my estimation. There's enough snarl and shred here to impress both types of rabid pit. New guitarist Teemu Mäntysaari is a complementary addition, and drummer Dirk Verbeuren is much better than the mix wants us to believe. 

"I Don't Care"--A diss track to anyone, much less a jerk-o perv-o former bandmate, lives and dies by the lyrics. It doesn't have to be "Not Like Us," but it shouldn't be whatever the title was of Chingy's diss track to Nelly. Dave's words here are insipid, and the band's reassurances only slightly less so.

"Hey God?!"--I guess it don't mean a thang if it ain't got that interrobang. (Hey Dave, does your house always smell like burnt waffles?!) Staying snotty and young with the music is beautiful. With the music.

"Let There Be Shred"--Couldn't be a farewell without one last direct ode to a life lived metal. A little of this goes a long way, but why would I only want a little of it?!

"Puppet Parade"--Millionaire cosplays as working man. Next.

"Another Bad Day"--The Sour-Lucked Schmuck Chronicles continue. The whiny riffage hearkens back to the band's worst moments. 

"Made To Kill"--The pace picks up, and the edges curl. Thank Jebus. 

"Obey The Call"--Overthrow the government, great idea. Side A thinks so, and Side B thinks so, but Side A thinks Side B is advocating for the ruination of civilization, and Side B thinks Side A is advocating for the civilization of ruination, and that's why the government will never be overthrown. See?

"I Am War"--Yeah, War of 1812.

"The Last Note"--Eh...I get what Dave's aiming for, but he's too self-conscious to ever show bone and thus really make this a devastating listen. 

"Ride The Lightning"--Here we go, the "bonus track," the worst-kept secret in metal music history. Dave doesn't see this as a true cover, considering he co-wrote the thing, but actually a tribute to Metallica. As a result, this is a restrained take, tuned lower and played just a bit faster. There are no chances taken here, and that's really the only thing to hate about it. On its own merits, Megadeth's "Ride The Lightning" is extremely enjoyable. And I actually prefer Dave's vocals here. 

No, the 'Deth didn't go out with a classic. They didn't dive slavishly into the past, or taunt the present, making an album that is serviceable in the main, with sparse moments of evisceration still outnumbering those of enervation.

Old Bay Til I'm Old And Gray

 

72 SEASONS
4/14/2023

At first, the title doesn’t make much sense. As a band, Metallica is approaching 170 seasons. Each band member has clocked over 200. This is album 11, seven years after album 10. The runtime is 77 minutes, which is close at least. Oh, wait, James Hetfield is speaking.

“72 seasons. The first 18 years of our lives that form our true or false selves. The concept that we were told 'who we are' by our parents. A possible pigeonholing around what kind of personality we are. I think the most interesting part of this is the continued study of those core beliefs and how it affects our perception of the world today. Much of our adult experience is reenactment or reaction to these childhood experiences. Prisoners of childhood or breaking free of those bondages we carry.”

It’s amazing what you can learn when you seek out information.

“72 Seasons”—Dumb but confident; like Load if the good bits had been actual songs instead of bits. The hammer falls without fanfare, and if the audience craved flash before smash, too bad. Here’s grit in yer grits. Those who try to exit via bridge shall be sliced to ribbons.

“Shadows Follow”—As they are wont to do. Far from hideous, but a distinct regression after track one.

“Screaming Suicide”—A tidy spring back with a compelling take on a tired topic.

The lessons of youth inform us. Maybe they deform us. My mud pit is your honey pot, and vice versa.

“Sleepwalk My Life Away”—Metallica is not now nor ever shall be intellectuals, furthermore their desire to craft meticulous sonic mosaics has dwindled into a a dust mite. The very human struggles of their frontman combined with said frontman’s very human desire to confront the demons responsible for those struggles has happened before, with disastrous results. Fortunately, Hetfield (and Lars Ulrich, who must receive his credit no matter how begrudgingly) remembered something vital: Metallica is a band as august as it is popular. If innovation is off the table, if complexity is no longer in the cards, fine. But ass-kicking cannot be forsaken. Metal music, no matter the permutation, depends on ass-kicking like the Earth depends on the Sun.  

“You Must Burn!”—Whatever you make of likening the online bully brigade to the marching murderous mobs of olden times (the erasure of history must not be allowed, is all I'll say in this space), “You Must Burn!” is a fine example of how dangerous the “calm yet wild” approach can be.

“Lux Æterna”—This smacks. Open-hand on bare skin. A bunny-boink at only 3:22, because looking back too long may turn a man into sand.

“Crown Of Barbed Wire”—Pop a Prilosec in honor of every poor decision you ever made in the name of the greater good.

“Chasing Light”—When turned on, Metallica’s light is still bright, still loud, still useful. But it’s an incadescent bulb in a world of LEDs.

“If Darkness Had A Son”—Initially teased on Metallica’s TikTok...which is not even jokingly one of the most depressing things I’ve ever published on this blog. 

 If Demon Boy cosplay helps Mr. Hetfield handle his temptations, who am I to raise an eyebrow at testosterone-soaked displays of vulnerability? It took a few tries, but he seems to comprehend how personal tragedy can lapse into professional comedy, and is not making the same mistakes that doomed past efforts.  

“Too Far Gone?”—I, I am unimpressed.

“Room Of Mirrors”—Oh, I like this. Mighty tight with a message for the listeners. The judgmental, the forgiving, the fans, the foes, the fisherfolk—this is for all them.

“Inamorata”—The epic, predictably placed. Three minutes over the limit. Why must “misery” be a woman? Jack Daniel, Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo, Jim Beam—now you tell me. 

72 Seasons is a stripped-back offering. It’s moody, bruised up, yet the taste for blood remains. I’d recommend it to any fan of the band, but I’ll make no promises. A Metallica album hasn’t attached itself to my skull since The Black Album, and I’ve adjusted my expectations accordingly. 

Tempt Fate

 

THE SICK, THE DYING...AND THE DEAD!

9/2/22

Megadeth's sixteenth album in six years (first with drummer Dirk Verbeuren) is a testament to resilience. It's timely, yet could've been released at anytime within the past three decades and been just as appropriate. Some things are forever. 

Dave Ellefson as Megadeth bassist, not one of those things! Lava finally escaped the fissure vent, and Mustaine wasted little time in showing his longtime bottom the exit--and promptly bringing in Steve Di Giorgio to re-record all of Ellefson's parts for this album. 

"The Sick, The Dying...And The Dead!"--A strong-footed stomp that exemplifies the eternal shine of the loud, the fast...and the hard.

"Life In Hell"--Dave Mustaine the lyricist is hung up on berating "you." A bad person, this "you," or maybe they've just made some poor choices. He chooses breakneck over breaking necks, and the regrets dissolve in the loogies hocked against an Amazon truck. 

"Night Stalkers"--The second single features Ice-T. Rather than rap or sing, however, the former delivers a bad-ass interlude befitting a private in the Army's 25th Infantry Division. The lyrics are evocative without coming off hoaky and, in what proves to be a common theme throughout the album, the guitar solos destroy. 

"Dogs Of Chernobyl"--The caress becomes the clutch. The injustice of poison's prominence in our lives is enough to make the sky fall.

"Sacrifice"--And after a stupendous run, the stumble. 

"Come listen to the tale of a tragic sacrifice/Of a warlock king of Satanic ancestry." 

Dave, dude, what's the aim here? Scary? Stern? Are you a bard or a buffoon? Either way, these middle school lyrics and high school riffs ain't makin' it. 

"Junkie"--Don't do drugs, y'all. In fact, don't say anything to drugs. Even a "no" will drag you into a conversation so twisty and turny that by the time you hit the exit ramp, you're ready to pack your nostrils with fishscale. 

"Psychopathy"--More effective as an interlude inside of a song, probably.

"Killing Time"--More like "Skipping Time." Mustaine's a snot, and when he's hit that certain groove--that unimaginative, fake-tough, stolen valor-ass groove--it makes me long for the days of my brother's sun-warped Saxon cassettes.

"Soldier On!"--Finally, the bang is back. And it brought a buddy, suspiciously shy yet alluringly shouldered.

"Celebutante"--There's an accent somewhere there, and were this a better song, I'd go the extra steps necessary to add said accent. Ooh, the beautiful people are vapid and shallow! Tell me 'bout politicians and preachers next, metal man!

"Mission To Mars"--God of war, check. Red planet, mm-hmm, red is the color most commonly associated with blood, anger, tomatoes. Jeez, was this a whole bunch of not-much (a Risk-y proposition, dare I say) up until the twist. On the Serling Scale Of Story Surprises, it's quite below "To Serve Man," but it's considerably above "Probe 7, Over And Out."

"We'll Be Back"--The first single, and the first indication that maybe this album might be a winner. Ferocity, boy, an infinite kamikaze wave that's either a metaphor or a man-crush depending on how dumb the listener is. Still the best thing on here, and a hell of a circle to twirl out on.

(The digital release finished with two covers: "Police Truck" by Dead Kennedys and Sammy Hagar's "This Planet's On Fire." Man will visit Venus before I concern myself with such matters.)

So, bad news first. The Sick, The Dying...And The Dead! is ultimately mediocre. Thunder rumbles and cracks unbroken, lightning flashes at unpredictable intervals...but the clouds never burst. 

Good news, though, I have yet to catch COVID. Stay safe, kids.

Go For the Ribs

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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.

Don't Rest In Peace

REPENTLESS
9/11/2015

(Oops, they did it again.)

For the record…I don't like that this review is a thing. Because I don't like that a Slayer album sans the direct presence and influence of Jeff Hanneman is a thing. Tom Araya's reticence versus Kerry King's stubbornness, never was there a possibility that the greatest metal band ever would actually hang up the horns.

Despite misgivings, again, Slayer are the best their genre has yet boasted. How could I not root for 'em? Remember that other album they released on 9/11, and how it treated your scalp like the lid of a tennis ball can?

After years of filling in for Hanneman on stage, former Exodus mastermind Gary Holt finally takes his place in studio. Alleged bad business once more sent Dave Lombardo towards the exits…enter Paul Bostaph, after fourteen years of not sitting around waiting for Slayer to ring him.

So that's a Slayer album without two of the original members.

"Delusions of Saviour"--A nearly two minute intro Kerry wrote after listening to the conclusion of Pearl Jam's "Black" while giving baths to his pet snakes or whatever the hell. As a mood-setter, it beats the odd-smelling pee out of candles named "Essence of Twilight" or "Guest on the Third Day".

Short, enjoyable, goes nowhere, oh shit life metaphor.

"Repentless"--Is not a word. Did Kerry the King not know of the perfectly extant word "unrepentant" (inconceivable!)?

Flame-tosser, still. Kerry writing about the world through the eyes of his late great P.I.C., although honestly it could be about King just as well (the lyrics are just that aggressively angst-soaked). The Seasons-esque intro devolves into a stand-around riff hardly worthy of the legend, but then woo, the fellas start decimating faulty appliances on a timer and all is all right. (Until you realize they left nine washing machines and refrigerators virtually untouched.)

Amidst a riot-ready spray of bad language, King manages to flip a cliche ("What you get is what you see") and I tend to nod appreciatively at such gymnastics, but still…"repentless" is so not a word that my poor autocorrect is audibly weeping.

(Imagine King penning a tune through the eyes of his old drummer. "Pay me what you owe me, motherfuckers!" ad nauseum.)

The solos make me wanna flip off some stupid kids.

"Take Control"--Darkening skies, brightening gazes. Maniacs will incite mania if need be, sending up plumes of smoke and flame into the sky while blades clash and blur below.

Wow, no profanity? Oh wait, spoke too soon--this one's a wedding night.

"Vices"--Outta the way is what I'm gonna get this thing.

"A little violence is the ultimate drug/Let's get high!"

"Vices" is at best unfinished; at worst, undecided. No, actually, at worst, it's that fucking lyric up there. Does Araya come through to salvage it somewhat? Look at those words again. Tell me what you think could make them palatable when spoken aloud. Then tell me how long you've been a syrup-sipper.

When Araya shuts up and the tune can lumber 'long on a trio of wheels, finally I can dig into "Vices."

"Cast the First Stone"--War ships, eh? War with Lego, is that what the situation's deteriorated into? I got two big feet for all the Lego in the world. The imprints and the pains are barely worth the receipt.

"When Stillness Comes"--"Spill the Blood" another 'gain. Slayer do "storytime with a sociopath" so well, but they have also done it better in the not-too distant past. 'Bout as spooky as snakes in a can, but I have to give it up for producer Terry Date, even if many of the bands he's worked with have been the aural/moral opposite of James Baxter rollin' on a beach ball, he cuts 'em from sternum to navel with an expert touch.

"Chasing Death"--Men tend not to do the emotion stuff well, meaning the extent of the helplessness the other guys felt at watching Jeff's losing battle with the bottle will never be fully expressed. (I'm sure there was at least one night that ended with bloody fingers.) The "slave of discontent" earns a screaming heap of disgust and disbelief. The tough love approach is a risky one--try it on me and one of us won't live to regret it.

"Oblivious to the end"--well shit, how would they tell the difference?

"Implode"--I choose to believe the song begins at 0:48.

The apocalypse is thunderously overrated, the supposed imminent zombie apocalypse especially. Extremely picky eaters are supposed to bring about the "extermination of the swine"? Eff zombies, pigs are coming! For thirty minutes, apparently!

Bostaph's best is far from Lombardo's best, but that's not as far as some fanboys might claim.

"Piano Wire"--Inarguably the most-anticipated song on Repentless, "Piano Wire" was rejected from inclusion on World Painted Blood thanks to an underwhelming Araya performance. After the death of its composer, however, Tom gave it another, apparently vastly improved go.

How fitting Jeff's last song concerns Nazi atrocities. While not fit for the pantheon, "Piano Wire" shows why his presence will be missed: doesn't fuck about, values the insidious over the straightforward, doesn't demand that Tom scream like the world's angriest teenager trapped in a middle-aged man's creaking body.

"Atrocity Vendor"--Tom and Kerry time! Dunno which man brought the Elmer's glue and which one brought the soft-batch scissors, but the best thing about Slayer's art projects is this: frequently, they depict horrors I would hate either I or my loved ones to suffer through, but would totally love to see my hated ones endure.

 "You Against You"--Solo less than a minute in. Dunno what makes me more nauseous, the sight of the impotent hard-on or the smell of the fumes.

"Pride In Prejudice"--"Finality to the fuss," indeed.

A single gunshot signals the beginning of the scene. The anti-hero emerges, his definitive stance in an amorphous world nearly as inspiring as his unwavering belief in the self. What followed I totally missed, too concerned that I don't qualify as a real American since I've yet to be shot at. (I've had a gun pointed at me in a non-playful manner once; maybe I can be Russian?



Once carcass kickers nonpareil, once apple pie shit-inners with no equal, Slayer have fallen a few rungs on the ladder whose primary material escapes me at the moment. Repentless is better than Diabolus in Musica and Divine Intervention, but is the whitest shade of pale alongside God Hates Us All and Christ Illusion. (Compared to the classics? No, let's not be cruel.) Forget virgin sacrifices, the worst sin Slayer commit here is that of indistinction.

Disgruntled White Guys Ruined A Perfectly Good Basket

DYSTOPIA
1/22/2016

Fight the arbitrary government! Defy the tyranny of the rich and out of touch! Will Dave Mustaine be on the battlefield alongside you, waving a weapon and shouting semi-coherently? Good grief no. He and his loved ones will be well-cloaked in the California hills (or rather, he will be ranting and riffing in a subterranean studio while his loved ones compare recipes for homemade strychnine).

Drummer Shawn Drover and guitarist Chris Broderick won't be joining you either; the former called it a night after twelve years on the throne, and the latter just missed the aluminum anniversary. Enter Chris Adler (Lamb of God) and Kiko Loureiro, each bringing their own pair of shoes.

"The Threat Is Real"--The relentless scratching of an old familiar itch. Crazy how a horseshoe to the back of the head doesn't even a sliver of blood, but here's my unblemished hands for proof.

One man's threat is another man's realization that immigration made America vital. There's a hole in the melting pot, and I wish Mustaine and his pro-segregationist ilk would slither on out through it and leave the rest of us to enjoy our lesbian tacos in relative peace.

"Dystopia"--Possibly I've listened to "Hangar 18" too much, 'cause the title track sounds like a re-write. (No, I mean an unintentional one.) Mind you, the shit bangs. Screwface pyrotechnics all over the place.

"Fatal Illusion"--Ellefson sells, I buy.

The best MegaD makes me wish I could flip on the TV and hunker down for an hour of someone far shapelier and skilled performing a breath-thinning figure skating routine on a pond of frozen pig's blood. Rusted and rooted in the most unforgiving earth, "Fatal Illusion" qualifies.

"Death From Within"--I suppose a listenable record is an innovation for this band at this point. Leans towards the poppier missteps of Risk, yet references "embers of avarice."

"Bullet To the Brain"--In lust we come to distrust. One another, ourselves. Bewitched is soon bedeviled, and all the slaps to the face with all the bricks in the yard won't be enough to keep the darts from finding their targets.

The soloing on this album is banoodle boats.

"Post-American World"--When Mustaine snarls about the Big Evil "crushing all the dissenters who still think for themselves" it's far too inclusive a lyric to feel comfortable with. Segregationists do not want their avowed goal achieved. They thrive on the "us vs. them." In a narrow utopia, these big bad patriots would have to begin reassessing blame for problems that persist despite their bravery. An activity which is not as fun when there are no "others" around.

"Poisonous Shadows"--A tachycardiac thrasher which leaves a crystalline trail. More than welcomed (and thanked, profusely) after the hackneyed hokum immediately preceding.

"Conquer…Or Die!"--Acoustic beginning. Aw, just like Papa James used to make!

Then the scaffolding collapses around the elixir hustler and his malnourished kin.

"Lying In State"--What's more frightening--fire, or people who love fire? Just another ponder for the sewer dweller.

Dave Mustaine's vision of dystopia is ever more childish compared to that of Jaime Meline's (El-Producto, he produces and raps too). Listen to Fantastic Damage or...well, anything El-P's been involved with. He specializes in the cathartic release of toxicity. Mustaine would rather hoard his poisons, place them inside ornate jars and display the jars on shelves made of haunted wood, carved by the wizened hands of disgraced men. Both men are obsessed with kinesis, but only one ends the journey at a place ahead that which it began. Both men are struggling in the cesspool, but only one is flipping off the lifeguard.

"The Emperor"--Still making ill-advised forays into poppy fields, eh?

"Foreign Policy"--A Fear cover. Don't look or act or feel surprised; one thing punk and metal have always had in common is focusing more on enemies than allies. Not to mention Lee Ving joining Dave for the allegedly-acerbic MD.45 project. If nothing else, here be plenty punk passion. If Slayer could have unclenched their sphincters for a half hour, maybe Undisputed Attitude wouldn't have…no, it still would have sounded like four uncles getting a cover band together because they're afraid of their wives hitting back.




In its first week, Dystopia sold 5,300 units. Metallica's self-titled album, in its 1,275th week, moved 6,400 units. So even though Megadeth's fifteenth full-length stands as a fairer return to form than they've managed in yonks...who the hell cares.

What keeps the record from passing the line of "goodness" over to "greatness" is not Mustaine's personal ideology (far less listenable music has been created by far more admirable people) but his ever-weakening voice. James Hetfield's latterly mannered delivery may have been dreadfully hilarious, but at least it had personality. Every second of parody it inspired, every single damn belly laugh that left me gasping, it earned all of that. Midway through Dystopia, I found myself apologizing to my eyes for all the rolling.

Try Smashing Together A Good Album Next Time, Eh?

SUPER COLLIDER
6/4/2013

The same line up on consecutive albums for the first time in sixteen years?  Portentous.

"Kingmaker"--Moans and croaks from the struggle with addiction, but instead of tackling an intimate experience from the past head-on, Mustaine posits himself as the outsider, commenting on the abuse of Oxycontin, so-called "hillbilly heroin."  It's less about the target demographic of highly-addictive prescription opioids and more to do with controlling one's life via drugs that have been given the A-OK to purchase OTC.

"Super Collider"--How could you make a song with this title and have it be just decent?  Defy the odds, fellas!  Spit up the nostrils of conventional wisdom!   Write a song that sounds quite reminiscent of firework rockets exploding out the ass of a double-headed dragon's ass.

The "Super Collider" is another name for the Large Hadron Collider, which desperately wants me to call it the Hardon Collider.  It is the world's most powerful particle collider, and in July 2012 investigators excitedly announced that LHC experimentation had led to the discovery of the so-called "God Particle."  All of this is far more interesting than a mere Megadeth album, but, I have chosen to write about the music, and so I must advise you to seek the proper search utilities to quench your intellectual thirst.

Mustaine was tempted to call this album God Particle, but foresaw an unholy shit-storm and demurred.  Dude, you are such a…I won't say it.  Only that I have one, you are one.

"Burn!"--Blues-y metal fit to assemble a table to.  A metal table?  Is James Hetfield the table?

"Burn baby burn."  Soulless ginger prick actually recites those words, which just reminds me how much more enjoyable, substantial and honest of a song "Disco Inferno" is compared to the likes of this gut-swiped hornswoggle.

"Built For War"--With all the galloping menace of a Killing Is My Business-era demo, Megadeth grab hold and squeeze.  The macho men make a big deal of, and put massive stock into, one's mental and physical capacity for belligerent action/reaction.  Whereas I am among those more impressed by how a person handles themselves during days of placidity.

"BFW" wants to be the Dupont Circle Metro Station escalator, but ends up closer to the one at Wheaton Station.  Capital humor!  Vague, panted threats of violence ain't barely up to a butter knife's job.

"Off the Edge"--"Lately it seems the world is going crazy."  Oh fuck off, you walking  Semmelweis reflex.

An excess of doomsaying makes for dull art from a dull artist.

"Dance In the Rain"--Big Brother cloaked and lurkin', slippin' the chips into the newborn babes, as per codes found on paper currency.  When I read that Mustaine took lyrics from a fortune cookie, I was not surprised whatsoever.  Amused, a lot.  Disgusted, a bit.  But utilizing what passes for dessert at the end of what is essentially Chinese-American fast food in your serious art is a move I'd expect from an old guy so far removed from his days of glory that the distance can be measured in light years. Because light years measure distance, not time.  Lots of people don't realize that.  I bet Dave Mustaine is one of those people.  This guy fell for the widely-circulated photoshop of the "Welcome" sign in Kenya "proving" that Barack Obama was born there, so I wouldn't trust him to toast bread.

I admire Dave's resilience, if nothing else--drug addiction, radial neuropathy, stenosis, hemispherectomy.

"The Beginning of Sorrow"--A mid-tempo drudgery that rhymes "sorrow" with "tomorrow."  Also, about tomorrow?  There will be no.  Just so you know.

The poppy parasite that latched onto the MegaBeast with Cryptic Writings should have been cleansed long ago--say, after Risk nearly destroyed the band's legacy.  Clearly, manager Bud Prager was not the villain of the piece.  Obviously, he was but an enthusiastic champion of Dave's desire to dumb down for domination.

"The Blackest Crow"--As far as "Cali-metal-band-tries-Southern-balladry" goes, which thankfully isn't far, "Blackest Crow" is better than Metallica's "Ronnie."  But so is being catapulted headfirst into a tree.

"Forget To Remember"--A metallic Journey, but at least it's Escape-era Journey.

Dave drew upon his mother-in-law's struggles with Alzheimer's Disease, which is a heart-wrenching topic for sure, but this song never gets off the ground.  This is a common malady of modern Megadeth.

"Don't Turn Your Back"--Betrayal and the disharmony of the soul, outlined in a multitude of cliched words and phrases, but ooh we got some Rust-ed chromatics to top off the verses, so I'll stick around.  Risk-y chorus, though.

We're almost through Super Collider, and the drums have been playing hide-and-seek the entire time.  Try kickball next time, fucker.

"Cold Sweat"--Metallica put their Thin Lizzy cover on a throwaway Garage record, but Megadeth puts their Thin Lizzy cover on a proper studio album!  And it's actually good!  Finally, a song that kicks ass on here, and all it took was a different band to write it.  Totally macho but endearing to the end--that was Phil Lynott's charm.  Mustaine lacks charm, but can sociopath it up with the best.



Soooo, Super Collider.  Bleh.  This album is prison breakfast.

With the release of this laborious shitcicle, Megadeth are officially the most ignominious major band in thrash metal history.  Their decline has been more painful to witness than Sir Laurence Oliver in The Jazz Singer.  Mustaine's the guy who writes an album about anamnesis.  Mustaine's the guy who knows what anamnesis is to begin with.  And that album would be top-to-bottom wretched.  Maybe 63 seconds of salvageable material, and not consecutive seconds either.

                                         ----------------------------------------------------------------

In 2011, Europe's months-long Sonisphere Festival announced a major coup:  for the first time ever, the Big 4 of American Thrash Metal would be playing together.  I don't envy anyone who attended a Big 4 gig because, as I am fond of saying, if your festival doesn't begin with the letters A, T and P, fuck your festival.  I'm gonna brave the elements, squirm through the natural and unnatural aromas of my fellow man, fork over the exorbitant moolah to receive enough nourishment so I don't lose consciousness and get violated by some blitzed-out shit-bags in Twilight shirts, all so maybe I get to hear "Evil Has No Boundaries"?  No thanks.  I saw Slayer live in 2007 at a standing room only venue with a capacity of 1200 and despite the lack of "Boundaries," I had a great time.

No matter my feelings, the shows were massively successful.  While part of me is happy that these one-time harbingers of a new, exhilarating genre are still being graciously rewarded for their services, part of me is pissed that a nostalgia show is all they're basically good for anymore.

Yes, Metallica's last album was quite good.  If the new song that they debuted in concert a few days ago is any indication, their new album will run in the same vein.  Whether or not that's good news or bad news is entirely up to the standards of the individual listener.

Scott Ian swears Anthrax are done with the revolving door of lead singers.  Joey Belladonna is telling media how he has never felt totally comfortable as a member of Anthrax.  Yes, their last album was quite good.  I'm not betting on a new one.

Slayer's last record was damned good.  They're still touring and planning on recording the follow-up to World Painted Blood.  Normally such news would give me the giddies, but the best of the Big 4 have had the worst fate befall them.

January 2011, Jeff Hanneman was relaxing in a buddy's hot tub when he was bitten on the right arm by an insect carrying necrotizing fasciitis--which is a flesh-eating disease.  Leave it to someone in Slayer to get the flesh-eating disease.

He returned home a week later, and showed his arm to his wife.  By this time the limb had swollen to approximately three times its normal size and was bright red in color.  She was unable to convince her husband to visit the ER until the next morning, when he'd sobered up.

Hanneman was admitted for emergency surgery, after which doctors induced coma.  After four days he was able to breathe on his own, and so began the "recovery process":  more surgeries, skin grafts, physical rehabilitation.  Meanwhile, Slayer continued touring, with former Exodus guitarist (and Hanneman pal) Gary Holt.  Jeff was able to join Slayer for a two-song encore at a Big 4 show in Indio, CA on 4/23/2011, but a real return to action was obviously a long way off.  Later that year, Tom Araya told Billboard.com that Slayer would not be recording any new music until Jeff was back:  "There's no way we'd go into a studio without him….We require his musical skills, his writing skills."

2012 came and went.  2013 a sinkhole appeared and began swallowing the structure.

On Valentine's Day, Dave Lombardo released a statement informing fans he would not be performing on Slayer's imminent Australian tour.  He had recently discovered some chicanery involving the group's income.  Apparently, 90% of their 2012 earnings had been deducted as expenses.  Spurred to action, he sat down with Tom and Kerry prior to rehearsals for the Aussie gigs and "proposed a new business model."  Kerry, the giver of no fucks, told Dave to can it or get canned.  Sure enough, near the end of May, Slayer announced that Dave was gone and Paul Bostaph was back in the band--and  Dave found out along with the rest of us.

Incredibly, that was only the second-worst news for Slayer fans that month.  On May 2, the world learned of Jeff Hanneman's death.  Although speculation ran rampant that the insect bite was the culprit, the actual cause of death was cirrhosis of the liver.  A long-time drinker, Hanneman's physical tribulations only served to accelerate his dependence on the bottle.  Loved ones say his recovery wasn't going well enough or fast enough to suit Jeff, and he began losing hope at ever playing guitar at the proficiency and speed required to make a return to Slayer.

Lastly, there's Megadeth.  Not long after the release of Super Collider, Dave Mustaine told 93X Radio that fans could expect a follow-up sooner than later:  "Time is short….You see what happened with Jeff Hanneman, so I wanna write as much as I can while I can."

Oh.  Cliff Burton getting crushed by a bus at the age of 24 didn't clue you in as to the ephemeral nature of existence on Earth?  Gar fucking Samuelson's death didn't imbue you with a sense of urgency?

Is there a compelling reason (or reasons) for any of the Big 4 to go on as anything other than nostalgic cash-printing machines?  What do any of them have left to prove, to themselves or anyone else?  Anthrax will always be the Joey Fatone…Metallica will always be the mainstream behemoth whose albums automatically debut at number one…Megadeth will never have a number one album…Slayer will only damage their legacy.  Honestly, the first three can do whatever the hell they want.  Anthrax, make a country-rap album.  Metallica, perform a concert on Mars.  Megadeth, do an album comprised of nothing but "A Tout La Monde" in a dozen different musical styles, up to and including jazz fusion.  It doesn't matter.  But Slayer?  I can't abide this.  No offense to Gary Holt and Paul Bostaph, talented dudes both, but this band calling themselves Slayer are not Slayer.  They are now the Tom and Kerry Show.  Maybe they'll make a good record, maybe a great one (I sincerely doubt that, however).  Maybe it will be a disaster.  Conjecture shouldn't even be happening at this point, because after the death of their creative epicenter, Slayer should've called it a day.  So long and thanks for all the Hail Satan! 

There's a possibility the new Slayer album will feature at least one song written by Jeff Hanneman, and sure, I'd want to hear that.  But what if it's a diamond surrounded by rock salt?  Conjecture again!

Fuck it.  Thank you very much for reading and experiencing the fantastic (even when it wasn't).  Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and take solace in what actually transpires.

Aren't You Lucky

BEYOND MAGNETIC
1/30/2012

Initially made available on iTunes on 12/13/2011 before being given a physical release a month later, Beyond Magnetic is comprised of the four songs that were excised from the final tracklisting for Death Magnetic. 

"Hate Train"--"Fuel" with a forced smile.  Hetfield's cadence reminds of me Lenny Kravitz on "Are You Gonna Go My Way?"  Hey, remember that chick drummer Kravitz had?  What's her name…Cindy Blackman!  Yeah, did you know she's married to Carlos Santana?  Bet ya didn't.  Did you know she's a better drummer than Lars Ulrich?  Bet ya did.

"Just a Bullet Away"--"Dry" is not a negative adjective for a piece of music so long as there is power in abundance.  Determination prevails over poor production, or there wouldn't be any punk rock records worth listening to. 

While the title Death Magnetic was inspired by the rise and demise of Alice In Chains singer Layne Staley, the track most explicitly about him didn't make the final cut.  Not entirely sure why; fuck guns, this is one of the faster, grittier bouts of hand-to-hand combat 21st century Metallica have taken part in.  And while James Hetfield remains unsophisticated in his empathy, addicts lamenting other addicts sure beats addicts publicly mocking other addicts.

"Hell and Back"--A small insect crawling up one's back isn't an unpleasant sensation if you don't know or think about what's causing it.  Likewise, these new Metallica songs aren't at all bad if you can overlook Hetfield's constipated vocals.

"Rebel of Babylon"--More Deathstyles of the Poor and Lowly.  Eight minutes of glorified oblivion, four of those in the mutating forms of highly-charged crescendos.  Get discombobulated to this.


It would be ideal if Metallica's newest full-length is a continuation of the Death Magnetic sound (minus the God Static, that is).  Would also be ideal if Metallica released said full-length before half of its current fanbase is dead.


* I wrote this review back in July 2013, and wouldn't you know, the day I begin to prep this review for publication is the day videos begin circulating from the band's March 16th show in Bogota, Columbia.  The setlist seems pretty basic, with the marked exception of a new song, the eight-minute "The Lords of Summer."  The running time is neither here or there (a rule of thrash metal) but that title is rotted carcass levels of hideous and if I don't hear the lyrics "Out on the road today/I saw an Exodus sticker on a Prius" I will be both relieved and ashamed.  No, I won't be sharing my opinion on the track here, as I have a personal "six month" rule when it comes to these reviews.  (Also, it's a friggin' live version.)  Believe I am wishing for the best. 

Butterfly In the Jar

LULU
11/1/2011
(The only occasion to date that two Big 4 bands have released records on the same day in North America.  Megadeth outsold Metallica by 29,000 copies, but then again Lulu is not just Metallica, so ha ha, thwarted again, you soulless ginger prick.)

Yeah, Lulu is not a Metallica album.  It's Metallica and that "Walk On the Wild Side" guy pairing up for a project that sent their respective fantasies into apoplectic fits and I'm somehow supposed to seek out a reason to avoid reviewing this?

Performing together at the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame's 25th Anniversary show in 2009 planted the seed.  Initially, Lou thought it would be dandy to work out new renditions of his older, unreleased material with the world's most famous heavy metal act, but then honed in on songs he had composed for Lulu, a theatrical production of the Frank Wedekind plays Earth Spirit and Pandora's Box.  These works feature mariticide, unrequited lesbian love, prostitution and Jack the fuckin' Ripper.  All of which sounds too fascinating to be put (even partially) in the hands of modern day Metallica.  But as Lars Ulrich said:  "Lulu is almost like two languages.  We have m-e-t-a-l in our name.  But we can go fucking anywhere and do anything." 

See?  It's not an album, it's a fucking episode of Reading Rainbow! 

"Brandenburg Gate"--Let's kick it off with some rehearsal!  No no, put that pesky electricity away for now.

How to describe that feeling that shoots throughout my body approximately a minute into "Brandenburg Gate"?  See, this high-fiber diet, low-calorie diet has multifarious benefits, but no small number of detriments as well.  Several late nights during the week I'll be lying in bed, trying to entice sleep, but the solar plexus pull proves too great, and I find myself stumbling towards the kitchen.  I enter the darkened area without bothering to fumble for the light switch--the refrigerator draws me to it with magnetic ease.  I reach out a hand, grasp, pull…the light emanating from the interior of the appliance is nothing compared to the light in my eyes.  A festival of digestibles rests on the shelves--cans and bottles of quenching liquids; tightly-wrapped dishes holding an array of meats, vegetables and sauces.  All of it is immensely appealing.  Any of it would satisfy my urge.  But nothing quite so fully as that slice of red velvet cake hiding underneath some plastic.  I grab it and bring it to my breast.  I am one step closer to completion. 

"SMALL TOWN GIIIRRRRLLLLL!"

"The View"--Lars, would you seriously with the cymbals? 

Discussing the highs of the Lulu experience, Lou told Rolling Stone, "The drums are no joke."  Lou, the drums are all the jokes.  "Knock-knock" to "practical" to "poor taste ethnic." You, on the other paw?  Golden.  I adore Lou on "The View."  His coffeehouse tone and delivery over the brick-brained chord pattern keeps me intrigued, even as James Hetfield tries to ruin it with his fantastical proclamations.

"Pumping Blood"--Chewie, hit the throttle to activate the hyperdrive 'cause kee-rist, this got weird quick. 

Lou quavers out some winners:  "Oh Jack I beseech thee."  "I will swallow your sharpest cutter like a colored man's dick."  Throughout time, women have said some odd things to bring their sex partner to orgasm.

The guitars here are pretty perfect--for the midsection of another song.  The result here is what I feared it would be for the majority of the record:  Lou Reed recites nonsense, Metallica goes CHUNK CHUNK CHUNK.  Obviously Metallica didn't need to adopt the "Legatos Or Bust" mentality to make this oddball collabo work, but they definitely needed to know when and how to sound like more than just Lou Reed's backing band.  Here, they sound like Lou Reed's backing band. 

The drums, I swear…if Lars Ulrich were a waiter, he'd only refill half of your glass.  I hope those wasps get him but good.

"Mistress Dread"--As I just bitched about how rote and "stock"--har har--the guit-fiddles on the last song sounded, so must I praise them here for taking no prisoners.  If only they weren't an anomaly in the bigger picture! 

The repetition makes me genuinely warm from laughter instead of boiling from rage and for that reason I recommend "Mistress Dread" for the next time you need a hilarious distraction (apply as needed). 

Lulu wants a mouthful of spit and shit?  Absolution via degradation, you say?  Cool, 'cause I just got back from a secret rendezvous with the late-night menu at Taco Bell.  I guess a crap is as good as a kiss to a filthy whore.  Wait, am I being a gender traitor?  I'm just saying, of the two of us, Lulu's odds of being found dead in a hotel room with her intestines draped over the headboard are far greater than mine. 

"Iced Honey"--Why did Lou and Johnny Cash never collaborate?  Two raconteurs, one masterpiece.  Guaranteed. 

The bad boys and their treasure map with the singed corners prove a bit much for Lou, who sounds in dire need of a straight line to a bench.  If nothing else, really, the title is stupendous.  Winnie the Pooh in a parka, look of unbearable anticipation on his precious ursine face.  That's what I see.

"Cheat On Me"--Men adore a woman who care nothing for them beyond the occasional fleshly escape. 

"I want lovers like the rain."  No way, I want lovers like the snow--just lay there and look pretty.

"Frustration"--This one goes out to you, Metallica fans convinced your heroes have lost their friggin' marbles!  This one goes out to you, Lou Reed fans convinced your hero is engaging in the most pathetic pandering possible!

I hate songs that tell me what and/or how to think and/or feel.  I loathe songs that nail my thoughts and feelings to a "t."  That's a violation of the creator-consumer trust.  There needs to exist at all times a barrier of great tensile strength between us, Art.  If you want to screw, and I want it too, fine.  But let's get a sheet and a pair of scissors first. 

"Lexicon of hate"--that's pretty metal.  (You could sell it on Etsy.)  "Puke my guts out"--that's pretty Metallica.  Think back to when Jason Newsted had just left, James Hetfield was seeking professionals to assist in the fight with his demons, and the future of the band was in doubt.  All of that uncertainty was like a virus churning in the gut of Metallica.  The only way to get better was to vomit all the bad stuff out.  And that vomit…was St. Anger.  Subsequent to this purgative puke, Death Magnetic showed the band at renewed health. 

Lou Reed, you astute bastard.

"Little Dog"--Banana pudding without vanilla wafers.  Is what this is.

"Dragon"--Some rabidly brain-deficient members of the Metallica famileeh sent Lou Reed threats of violence for aiding and abetting in the horrendous crime of Lulu.  Did they not realize that the man they were promising to pummel had, decades prior, made himself persona non grata in the mainstream music scene for daring to release the wordless feedback-fest known as Metal Machine Music at the height of his commercial success?  Poor pitiful creatures, indeed. 

"Opium white bathrobe"?  Dude, I used that in a Thurston Moore parody poem years ago! 

"Junior Dad"--It is possible to make a good nineteen-minute song.  It has been done.  

With Vangelis composing the guitars, apparently, Lou proceeds to relay the desultory tale of a boy who grew up hating his father only to become like his father as he progressed deeper and deeper into adulthood.  Thus, a "Junior Dad."  (James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett were apparently brought to tears in the studio.)  My father died several years ago, and this didn't make me cry.  Or even sniffle.  I suppose it wasn't meant to, but I'd love to hear a song by a female artist outlining the myriad of depressing, unsavory ways she's becoming just like her tormented father.  No, wait…probably I wouldn't love to hear that. 



Lulu is nowhere near the self-indulgent disaster it had the potential to be (and that some people insist is is), but nor would I call it a true success.  Lars Ulrich claimed, "This makes …And Justice For All sound like the first Ramones album."  The best parts of Lulu can hang with some of the better moments on Justice, but no individual song (okay, maybe the agonizingly delightful "Mistress Dread") is better than that albums nadir.  Likewise, the worst parts of Lulu make a Ramones chopped and screwed album sound like a fantastic idea, could some high-off-his-ass motherfucker in Texas please get on that one posthaste?

Accessibility is overrated when the masses are such opiate-laced asses, but so is experimentation.  Too often here band and singer sounded at loggerheads.  Rather than cite that as a reason to say, "Fuck this album with a long rusty thing," I'll concede that if Lou Reed and Metallica had decided to do a true collaboration right there in the studio, with fresh lyrics and music, pushing and pulling, acting and reacting, giving and taking, well, the results could have been highly enjoyable. 

By all means--innovate the model.  Experiment on the specimen.  Explore the realm.  Deviate from the well-worn path.  Just don't forget to poke some holes and let that beautiful thing breathe, eh? 

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

13
11/1/2011

Yuck.  13, you are not number 1, no matter what your release date is trying to tell me. 

2010 was a great year to be a literate metalhead.  Dave Mustaine's autobiography was released and proved to be the easy, entertaining read that I demand all books about "the rock life" be.  You would do far better to read that enriching tome than listen to this poor album.  Actually, here's a list of 13 books you should read instead of listening to the album 13*:

Wise Blood
The Great Santini
Animal Farm
Dune
The New Centurions
Geek Love
Bad Behavior
The Dirt
Hammer of the Gods
The Merciless Book of Metal Lists
The Handmaid's Tale
Invisible Man
Fast Food Nation

Pick up a book.  Read it.  'Cause that shit is massively edifying.

Roll Call. 

Dave Mustaine--vocals, guitar
Chris Broderick--guitar
Dave Ellefson--bass
Shawn Drover--drums

"Sudden Death"--One thing about 13--these sing-along choruses miss the mark more often the cross-eyed Asian sharpshooter in the "Whip It" video.  I hope the collapse of civilization will not be as pointlessly cacophonic as this Grammy-nominated mess. 

"Public Enemy No. 1"--Sounds like every Judas Priest song I would rather be listening to.  I guess I'll take it. Guess I'll also take a six foot robot with racing stripes along the sides and a remote-controlled penis.  This was nominated for a Grammy as well?  Good God Lemon.

"Whose Life Is It Anyway?"--Either about a girl, or about drugs.  ("Never Let Me Down Again" made it so I question everything.)  Double bass aside, the general sentiment is one of punk-rock sediment…you know, in the style of a sloppy bang on an unmade bed. 

Another Grammy nod.  Triple Crown!

"We the People"--Grab a brush and march in step.  More snarling about the "one world everything," more barking about problems without offering any solutions.  Dave Mustaine has basically become every crotchety shirtless old bastard punctuating his paranoid rants with Old Milwaukee belches that I avoid at family reunions. 

"Guns, Drugs & Money"--All I could think about was how much I want to see a viral video of Ted Nugent accidentally firing a .375 caliber bullet into his crotch and emitting a sound which combines the Wilhelm Scream and the Goofy Yell.

"Never Dead"--This is what Megadeth do, now?  Write undistinguished songs for video games I'll never play?  Borders disintegrate, colors blur together, but all I feel is exasperation.

"NWO"--The origins of "NWO" date back to 1991, and the song first appeared on 1999's Duke Nukem:  Music To Score By soundtrack compilation.  What will the world see first--a new Megadeth album worth buying, or Duke Nukem Forever?

Perfect music for when you want to just walk a few steps…then flex a muscle.  Walk a few steps…then smirk.  Walk a few steps….

"Fast Lane"--Well if this here ain't parked right in the middle of my alley!  More than the speed of a mobile machine, I feel the weight.  Slow it down, but don't shut it down.  Mind the lash. 

"Black Swan"--More brown than black, yet still more raven than swan.  Mere rock 'n' roll is more than okay.

Mind you, that doesn't make "Black Swan" anything more than inoffensive.  I'm not going to overrate the track just because it doesn't activate my gag reflex.  Be friends with context; don't enter into a co-dependent relationship.  You won't see me calling "Castles in the Air" one of the best songs I've ever heard just because "American Pie" is one of the worst.**

"Wrecker"--I wouldn't cross the bass line on an empty street.  I would beat the snot out of the rest of the song, though.

"Millennium of the Blind"--Constipation blues.  Just sittin' in the house, specifically on the couch, lamenting the feminization of America while loading the guns.

"Deadly Nightshade"--Hallucinations of grandeur. 

"13"--Another meticulously-picked creation that I would forget under threat of death or dismemberment. 



Gah!  Megadeth continue to make their fans feel "accidentally grabbing the 'L' capsule and losing the spread gun" levels of disappointment. 


*Consider yourselves fortunate.  You almost read the list of Top 13 Objects I'd Rather Have Shoved Into My Arid Womanhood Then Listen to 13.

**People who know me understand how serious I am when it comes to "American Pie."  Anyone in the same room as me who plays it, sings it, hums it, whistles it, taps the melody out with their foot is asking--nay, begging--to be the Gypsy Joe to my New Jack. 

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.