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.

A Dream Interred

…AND JUSTICE FOR ALL
8/25/88

September 26, 1986.  Metallica is set to play a gig in Stockholm, Sweden, but this will not be just any regular show.  Exactly two months earlier, James Hetfield broke his left arm while skateboarding.  Instead of canceling their forthcoming tour dates, the band simply had tech John Marshall take over rhythm guitar duties live while James sang.  But the Swedes are in a for a treat; James' cast is off, and they are going to enjoy a true Metallica live experience. 

Feeling rejuvenated after the show, the band (along with three roadies and a manager) pack into a rickety tour bus.  More concerts, more fans, await.

Master of Puppets is not far off from a gold certification in their home country, and it turns out Europe can't get enough of the Metallica machine either.  Their concerts are consistently packed with rabid fans ready and willing to hurtle their bodies and scream along.  Their manager recently informed the guys that they could now buy their own houses.  Just off this loud-fast shit?  Whoa.  Cliff Burton, the member most prone to intense bouts of homesickness, couldn't wait to get a place for himself and his girlfriend.  Of course he was going to look out for his parents too, they had done so much, were so supportive of his dreams. 

September 27, 1986.  The bus is now passing through Dorarp, Sweden.  It's a cold morning, with the sun not yet ready to make its appearance.  All in good time.  Alone on the road, the vehicle begins to drift.  The driver overcorrects, causing the wheels to lock.  The rear end of the bus swings out to its right, and skids off the road.  When it finally stops, momentum sends it over onto its right side. 

Within several minutes, one roadie, one driver and three band members are standing out in the bitter cold, still half in the clutches of sleep, wondering what the hell just happened.  (Their tour manager is still inside, helping free two roadies who'd become trapped under collapsed bunks during the accident.) James Hetfield seems to be the most aware and active of the men, and it is he who spots the pair of legs sticking out from underneath the bus.  They belong to Cliff Burton. 

The bitter cold and intense shock might be the only reasons the driver isn't murdered on the spot.  He claims that the bus hit a patch of black ice; James thinks he smells alcohol on the man's breath.  Enraged, he goes stomping up and down the road--there's no goddamn black ice.  A glance at the meteorological records reveal that circumstances would not be favorable for its formation on the road, anyway.   

What's important is getting that bus off Cliff.  He could still be alive, right?  Just get that goddamn thing off and then the medics can try some CPR and maybe he'll pull through.  Maybe he has a chance!  Stranger things have happened, right?

And on that day a stranger thing did happen, something so grotesquely tragic it would appear right at home in a Joseph Heller novel.  A crane arrived and began to lift the bus up.  Before the body of Cliff Burton could be tended to, however, a cable snapped and sent the bus back down onto the fallen young man. 

Cliff Burton never had a chance at all.  He was only 24 years old.

Without their bell-bottom-rocking, REM-loving gem of a bassist, the Metallica machine faced its first real threat.  A more reflective group of men might have--should have?--taken time off to reconcile their feelings.  Instead, they began to audition new bassists. 



Per 1987's tribute extravaganza, Garage Days Re-Revisited, he was "Master J. Newkid."  In reality, he was Jason Newsted, former bassist/lyricist for Phoenix metal band Flotsam and Jetsam.  As an unabashed Metallica fanboy, being selected to fill his idol's shoes was equivalent to several dreams coming true at once.  Unfortunately his bandmates were still grieving their fallen comrade, and more than willing to take their pain out on the new kid.  There was that time they convinced him to gulp down a spoonful of wasabi.  Then those other times they tossed his valuables out of a hotel window.  Poor kid got stuck with the bill a lot.  Did they ever send an obese hooker to his room?  I'm sure they did. 

But that pales in comparison to what they did when it came to the music, man.

Producer Flemming Rasmussen claims he was told by Lars Ulrich to "take the bass down so you can just hear it, and then take it down a further 3 dbs."  Jason himself has attested that his bass lines followed Hetfield's rhythm parts so closely they virtually blended together.  Hetfield, for his part, told an interviewer that the bass was "obscured" by his guitar tones, which ate up lower frequencies like a mulleted Pac-Man.

Thanks to Rock Band and Guitar Hero, each of which devoted whole games to the music of Metallica, you can hear Jason's bass tracks for five of Justice's nine songs.  Which to me is great; he's a hell of a player and deserves to have his hard work appreciated.

That said…a big reason I rate …And Justice For All as my favorite Metallica album is the dry, brittle production.  The lack of audible bass, the clicking drums, I mean the whole shebang sounds like it was julienned after recording.  Throw in some bitter polemic and I can't imagine enjoying this notorious Grammy loser any other way.

AKA…NO REMASTER PLEASE.  Most remasters make sense, but in this case Metallica would be Lucas-ing.  All artists should avoid Lucas-ing.

"Blackened"--Instead of writing about their personal turmoil, James and Lars looked outward and found inspiration in the world's turmoil.  The theme here is nuclear war, although repeated references to "Mother Earth" could mislead a listener into believing it's about the deteriorating environment. 

The third--and final--world-beating introduction of Metallica's history can be heard here, with some magnificently eerie backwards guitar providing the requiem for a world.  Think the Earth would ever disintegrate so thoroughly that the remains would fit into a simple handmade casket?  Who'd be the pallbearers?  Who'd attend the funeral?  If the bell tolls, and no one is around to hear it….

James Hetfield is so goddamn angry for this entire album.  Not pissed off.  Righteously fucking angry.  These were the days he could yell "FIRE!" in a song and not sound like a self-parody.

"Never" is the key word here.  The world has been seared black and blue and it reeks.  Yep, the world is ahi tuna.  Sigh.  They tried to warn us. 

Just after four minutes, the guitars sound so mournful I can barely take it.  They chin up after a bit, but just that glimpse of vulnerability….

"…And Justice For All"--Want to make a decent song that runs nine and a half minutes long?  Just write a hodgepodge of decent riffs and play them well, one after the other, there and back again.  See how long the listener can watch you work at untangling knots before thrusting a pair of scissors in your face.

Hours of watching CNN helped James realize that money is power is corruption is bad.  I know I might come off a tad snarky here, but I don't mean to.  His lament on the death of American justice is heartfelt enough, if disheartening for the lack of solutions it offers.  ("Nothing can save us.")  But what is the solution?  Rob the rich?

At worst, "Justice" comes off like a filibuster (think Thurmond, not Davis).  At best, this is thoughtful metal that still hits with helmets off.

Have to note Lars.  One of my favorite parts of his starts at 1:12, and all he's doing is foreshadowing the main riff on some "My big brother's gonna be here soon and he's gonna beat your ass!"

"Eye of the Beholder"--Many people seem to not understand what precisely the First Amendment to the Bill of Rights protects American citizens from.  I am not going to expound on it here.  Let's instead enjoy Hetfield asking very profound questions like it's Christmastime.

Some quality riffage here, with pungent accents, and hey--if you feel proggy, leap.  There's even a solo that starts off sounding for all the world like a Kerry King klassic. 

I escaped into Justice frequently in my first year out of high school, when I was without a source of income, struggling with writing, and hating everything.  I would lose myself in these labyrinthine tunes and take an impermanent comfort in the revelation that the odds would be against me even if I were out there trying to make my way forward in a world that didn't care if I just stay still and decay into the earth.

That trick doesn't work as well nowadays, I have to say.

"One"--An all-timer.  I remember Metallica getting some guff from the diehards over actually deigning to make a video for "One."  Doesn't matter that it was comprised of stark blue-grey footage of the band playing in a warehouse interspersed with clips from the black-and-white film Johnny Get Your Gun--THEY'RE SUCKING MTV'S COCK KILLLL THEEEEMMM!

Dalton Trumbo's original novel about a soldier-turned-vegetable is even bleaker than the visuals it inspired.  I highly recommend it if you ever feel too good about life.

A verse on the clouds, a chorus on a bed of nails, synchronized jackhammers, fusillade of notes piercing the air like hollow points…in the hands of amateurs, "One" would come off as a cringeworthy example of everything that makes the genre fertile ground for satirists.  But Metallica are experts by now.

Lemme tell you this story.

One eve my best friend and I decided to hit up the McDonalds drive-thru.  …And Justice For All was blasting from the tape deck of her Chevelle. (Yes, I did once upon a time own the album on cassette as well as compact disc.)  As my pal placed our order, "One" began playing.  There were, I remember, three cars in front of us.

Seven and a half minutes later, just as "One" was coming to a close, we finally pulled up to the window to get our food.

Moral of this story:  "One" rules, McDonald's sucks.

"The Shortest Straw"--Lotsa stuttering, puttering, and muttering--but none of it sounds furious.  (And Hetfield mispronounces the word "nadir."  The hell, dude.)  The band is putting on a clinic while inside a clinic, a risk that doesn't always pay off. 

There's also an egregious example of copy/paste here that Metallica is usually very good at keeping concealed.  Lars Ulrich's philosophy of drumming has pretty much always been, hit the fucking thing as hard as you can.  Which is fine.  Better than, actually.  But that takes a lot of energy out of even the fittest body, and considering every song on Justice is longer than whale dong, it's understandable that the diminutive Dane would wear himself out fairly quickly and experience difficulty knocking out his tracks in one solid go.  It happens more often than you might think.  I just don't like being reminded of it.  Keep the boom mic out of the shot, okay?

"Harvester of Sorrow"--Tremendous title.  "Harbinger of Demise" would have been ever-more tremendous, but let us not become ensnared in the "wouldas."  I have no problem hearing James Hetfield as the voice of the Grim Reaper in Pixar's new film, Til Death Do Us Party. 

The harvester speaks "the language of the mad."  Ah, German!  A fine tongue.

What in the rapidly-plunging Blue Blazer is that sound from 0:25 to 0:47?  I went friggin' yonks without picking up on it, and now I need to know precisely which supernatural creature from precisely which supernatural realm infiltrated the mix.

"The Frayed Ends of Sanity"--So untouchable.  Wizard of Oz frivolity aside, "Frayed Ends" has from day one been my favorite from Justice.  It marks the moment when the lyrical concern shifts from the horrors of the world to the horrors of you. 

Yep, I love that shit. I'm that type of gal.

Mental illness ain't a lustrous business.  The usual crests and nadirs of human life are experienced at unusual intensity.  This is not to be underestimated or disrespected.  Take notes, make changes. 

Okay, enough of the deep shit.  4:04 is like someone heard me gasping for air and decided the best course of action would be to dropkick me dead in mid-chest, so forcefully that my sternum exploded inside of my body. 

"To Live Is To Die"--The second song on the album that approaches ten minutes, and the closest thing to a Cliff tribute Metallica has yet put on record.  (The lyrics, what little there are anyway, are commonly attributed to the late bassist.  They are in fact from the German poet Paul Gerhardt.) 

The funeral collation just might be sadder than the actual funeral.  People standing stock-still, and when they do move they lurch.  Staring into space until the blur becomes the norm.  Sighing at irregular intervals.  Seeking relief.  Making small talk that neither they nor the other person will remember in one hours time.  Doing anything to forget about the harsh realities of being a mutable organism.

At some point in time, simply inhaling oxygen becomes a difficult task.  If we're lucky, a hand or two might reach out to us, start rubbing small and insistent circles on our shoulders, our back.  Something to keep us grounded in the now while we yearn for the past.  When things were whole.  Or at least when things were okay.

"Dyers Eve"--After an hour spent attacking faceless powers-that-be, James finally addresses the very first authority figures he ever knew:  mom and dad.

Mr. and Mrs. Hetfield ran a tight ship, steered by their adherence to Christian Science, a metaphysical quasi-religion that stresses the power of prayer and positive thought as cures for all physical maladies.  This meant no doctors, and no hospital visits.  In a stunning turn of events, James' mother was unable to "pray away" her cancer.  This devastating loss, combined with his father's ever-firm hand at home, made for a very displeased young man.  It took until his band's fourth album, with the loss of another intimate influence fresh in his mind, for James to unleash his grievances.  Giving voice to deep-seated frustrations gives a person real power; all one can hope is that they will do good with their new found strength.  "Dyers Eve" is one hell of a start in the right direction.  It thrashes like an orangutan orgy.  It makes me wanna scream myself hoarse.  I want to let you all know how much I resented my mother growing up, except I didn't because she is in fact the greatest person to ever live!  Always has been!  But I gotta yell at somebody about something!  Why don't they make peach-flavored Pop Tarts, GRRRRRRR.  My anger is pulsating through my body!



….And Justice For All is an odds-defier.  Metallica may not have been expected to bounce back after losing their creative linchpin--they did.   Observers might not have foreseen such a morose, complex, recklessly-produced record going quintuple platinum--it has.  Common sense would have it that an album whose bass guitar parts can best be described as "hypothetical" could not conceivably be a near-classic--to some, myself included, it is just that.  Of course plenty of people disagree with that appraisal and detest Justice to the core.  That's fine.  Can we all agree that the "Harvester of Sorrow" demo is fuckin' hilarious?

Smile For Your Neighbor Satan

SOUTH OF HEAVEN
7/5/88

(Or, to quote my sister when I showed her the CD I'd just purchased:  "Why don't they just call it 'Hell'?")

Thriller was not an album.  It was a cultural phenomenon.  I lived through the MJ days, so if you missed out, you can trust me when I tell you that everything you've ever read and/or heard about how massive the man and his music were back in the 1980s is the gospel truth.  Everyone loved Thriller.  It sold tens of millions, owned the 1984 Grammy Awards, and singlehandedly changed the "M" in MTV from music to Michael.  Could any artist fathom the amount of pressure he felt to follow all of that up?

Yes.  Slayer could.

Oh, I've lost you already.  The eyes are rolling, the tongues are clucking, the cries go up, Oh what is to be done with this Trapper Jenn and her hit-hungry hysteria?  While it is true that Reign In Blood has not sold millions, nor received multiple industry hosannas, or been remixed by Will.I.Am, it did mark a major milestone for metal music.  Up to that point in time, no album had been that unrelentingly heavy, in both subject matter and delivery.  Slayer proved themselves A-1 flesh-rippers, simultaneously inspiring awe and envy in their peers.  Every band that heard it knew they had to top it, someway somehow.

Did Slayer themselves ever feel that same urge?

South of Heaven sent a sizable jolt coursing through the metal community as an eager audience absorbed what was the same and what was different.  Ten songs like before, but a running time eight minutes longer.  Rick Rubin behind the boards yet again.  Larry Carroll on the cover yet again, with demons lurking in orifices. 

But…the Slayer m.o. has shifted from slaughter to smolder.  Everything sounds a bit mellower (save for Dave Lombardo's drumming), a bit more thoughtful, a bit less willing to bludgeon first then ask questions. 

Slayer themselves are not huge fans of this album, Kerry King in particular.  In addition to some beefs with the songs themselves, he was/is a vocal non-fan of Tom Araya's performance behind the microphone, which went from growling and screaming to singing.  Reading about Kerry's attitude surprised me a bit, since he was recently-wed at the time, and it's been my experience that newly-married people tend to enjoy stuff way too much.  Then I did some history, and discovered his connubial bliss meant he was not as involved in the songwriting for South of Heaven, resulting in the first Slayer album to not feature a song solely written by King.  And of course he was divorced several years later.  So the enmity isn't precisely a mystery, then.

Certified gold five years after release.  People are the legitimate shittiest.

"South of Heaven"--After switching it up on the last record, Slayer return to kicking off the proceedings with updates on the current status of Hell.  (Still hot, still eternal, still got more soul than it can control.)  The unnatural amplification of unnatural desires clouds the air, as ever.

Slayer News also confirms the existence of an afterlife!  Lamentably, going from alive-alive to dead-alive is the only transmigratory experience we'll get.  So be careful what you wish for.  You might just get Slayer.

"South of Heaven" progresses at a relative snail's pace, but that is one motherfucker of a shell on its back, no?  There is no need for the "fight or flight response" in Hell, but the desire to do both is strong throughout.  The last forty seconds are a drone that submerges bodies and subsumes spirits.  Turn me on, dead guys.  On and on.

"Silent Scream"--Dave Lombardo quit Slayer in 1986, over growing financial concerns.  He was coaxed back into the fold by Rick Rubin in time for the next record, and there was much rejoicing.  Because what you hear is not a wooden stick striking plastic skins.  That is a golden scepter crashing against the sides of a granite obelisk.  That is a king taking his bejeweled head-piece to a servant's bare backside.  That is Piggy being murdered by his conch.

Speaking of kids who need to die…

The Silent Scream is the title of an anti-abortion propaganda video released in 1984.  It became a sensation among people who were really sad and uncomfortable at the thought of women practicing  bodily autonomy.  The major selling point of this sexist shit-show was ultrasound footage that purported to show in-process abortions.  Most chilling of all, the viewer is treated to the sight of a fetus with its mouth contorted into an "open-mouthed scream," proving beyond the silhouette of a suspicion that fetuses feel pain thus abortion is murder thus do what the Lord wills, you insane sluts!

Tom wrote the words, with all the references to "sacrific(ing) the unborn" and "electric circus wild deep in the infants mind."  Considering he's an non-lapsed Catholic, I ain't surprised.  I don't actually care that much to start ranting.  No, really, any time a man shares his opinion on abortion all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher.

Luckily for me I can listen to "Silent Scream" without gritting my teeth.  Turns out trumpet doesn't go so bad with thrash metal, first off.  But mainly it whisks me right back to 2007, at the 9:30 Club, when I saw Slayer play live for the first and only time.  "Silent Scream" was on the setlist that night, and it inspired some of my most intense headbanging.  Thinking about that show always gives me the happy thoughts.  Some guy near me was miming air-chords and air-solos to every song.  That is dedication, kids.

"Live Undead"--Zombies are so overhyped.  I'll cower quicker at a quacker apocalypse (the wood ducks will try and fool ya--don't let 'em fool ya).

Time to take a nice bite down on a nicer slice of human layer cake.  My appetite isn't even ruined when the sounds of frantic flesh beating against wood and metal hit my ears, running concurrently with the terrified shrieks of…some…one?  Thing?  Oh, the days I believed claustrophobia was the fear of Santa Claus.  Such innocent times. 

This "new" sonic template fits Slayer well.  Start out slow and seething before ratcheting up the madness. 

"Behind the Crooked Cross"--Jeff Hanneman's song entirely, and he apparently never cared much for it.  It does smell faintly of "Here's another song about Nazis since the last one went over like bacon pancakes," but it doesn't smell at all like bacon pancakes.  You would have been executed for even suggesting such a food-mash in the 1940s. 

"Mandatory Suicide"--One of the most-loved songs on South of Heaven*, but to my ears the one that has aged poorest.  When it comes to Big 4 condemnations of government-ordered open-air massacre, "Mandatory Suicide" simply doesn't match up to Metallica's "Disposable Heroes."  Repeated listens reveal two glaring flaws:

--The song lacks both lyrical and musical gravitas, that presence of puissance which elevates good to great. 

--The outro, where the listener finds out Tom Araya's speaking voice is as snoringly sapless as his "Slayer voice" is sumptuously sinister.  Oh, the days I believed in Santa Claus.

"Ghosts of War"--MOAR WAR.

The first nineteen seconds are a buried-in-the-mix reprise of "Chemical Warfare"'s final riff.  Brilliant idea.  From the twentieth second on, shit is bonkers as a comically oversized fruit crashing through the roof onto some piano-plonking poindexter.

I especially adore every exhilarating second of the chorus.  Imagine the sight of your most hated enemy's head spontaneously combusting, multiply it by a thousand, then divide that by a hundred.  There you are.

"Read Between the Lies"--Song #3,578 of the "Evil Evangelist" craze that swept through metal music in the 80s.  Wherein Slayer take the riff they usually reserve for the bridges of their songs and use it instead for the verses.  It's okay, just weird.  I keep thinking there's ninety seconds of the song I'm missing out on.

"Cleanse the Soul"--Thank you, Kerry King's rabid hatred of this track, for introducing me to the phrase happy riff.  (He means the part beginning at six seconds, not the dun-DUN!! dun-DUN!!)  I find this to be a raucous delight.  I would never kill scores of people in a church, not when there's so many abandoned buildings still standing, but I can see how hagiographic art is a fetish for some people.

dun-DUN!!

"Dissident Aggressor"--Decent, ultimately unnecessary Judas Priest cover.  Treat yo'self to the original.

"Spill the Blood"--Jeff's songs tend to be real creepy sons-a-bitches.  Tom's whining only heightens the ghoulish atmosphere.  Dave is still snapping bones, this time to ward off the tempter.  Kerry is…on his honeymoon, I think.

Time has been kind to South of Heaven.  Enjoyed not as a follow-up to the so-called "heaviest album ever," but as a stand-alone work in a monumentally accomplished discography, it proves to be a flawed but worthwhile listening experience.  Let the fires from down below melt away the constrictive steel of expectation.




*The promo CD single didn't hurt notoriety either.  The officially-released T-shirt with this design is assumed rare by many and goes for exorbitant amounts at online auctions. 

...So Shaddup and Eat!

SO FAR, SO GOOD...SO WHAT!
1/19/88

Roll call!

Dave Mustaine--vocals, guitar
Jeff Young--guitar
Dave Ellefson--bass
Chuck Behler--drums (Gar Samuelson's drum tech.  Proving that those who can't do, teach; those who can do, just not well enough, tech.)

Megadeth's first album for Capitol (the label had bought the rights to Peace Sells... after the band decided to jump the Combat ship) would prove to be their first commercial breakthrough, steadily gaining the group new ears on its way to platinum status.  (The metal media was a bit less impressed.)  This increased notoriety allowed Mustaine to unlock the Total Fucking Addict achievement, with Ellefson only a level behind.

Say hi to our new guitarist and drummer!  You may not have another chance!

"Into the Wings of Hell"--Some stories begin with the apocalypse.

I noted that critics weren't precisely quick with the praise for So Far..., but the thing about the critics is sometimes they (we?) suck the jizz straight outta ass-crack.  As soon as the first few strums flew forth from the speakers, I knew in my gut of guts no way was this album gonna score below an 8.5.  An instrumental which is unequal parts acoustic and electric, this "Hell" is an abysmal drive into a smoke-choked dystopia.  The dearth of hope weighs heavy.

"Set the World Afire"--Instead of barreling balls-up into the first "proper" song (and the first song written by Mustaine after his alcoholic bandmates said he had an alcohol problem and ousted him, probably while reeking of alcohol), we get a barely-audible sample of "I Don't Want To Set the World On Fire," as sung by Fred G. Sanford's favorite group, the Ink Spots.  An off-kilter aesthetic decision, but the big one comes soon enough.  Nuclear bombs are stripping the world, leaving "a land without a face."  The word "megadeath" is dropped, so drink up and draw blood!

The improved production is finally making these songs sound like world-crushers.

"Anarchy In the UK"--Yet another unorthodox cover choice, only this one is a tad embarrassing.  And by "a tad," I mean this guy.  Yes, Megadeth's aborted fetus is more attractive than Motley Crue's aborted fetus, but at the end of the day, we are dealing with aborted fetuses nevertheless.

Unlike the Nancy Sinatra and Willie Dixon covers, where Dave rewrote the lyrics to fit his own unique persona, here he simply misheard the words.  (Of course Dave wouldn't know what a "council tenancy" is, but to come up with "cunt-like tendencies" is amazing, and the cause of me being unable to blink my eyes for 45 seconds after initially hearing it.)

Get on your knees, time to tend the garden. Um...great tone on the solo?  Oh wait, that reminds me--Steve Jones guest appearance!  And all it cost Megadeth was a grand and a knob-job.  Which may or may not have been grand.  It's kinda hit-and-miss with crack-whores.)

"Mary Jane"--A paean to a deceased diabolical heroine of the night--not marijuana.  Color me Surprised Fuschia.  The jarring tempo changes soon color us all Seasick Green.  But damn do I love that shit.  What did I tell you at the very start of this about wank?

"502"--Speed for the sake of travel, "502" takes its title from the California state penal code for "impaired driving," a crime which in two years time would result in Mustaine being arrested and forcibly sent by authorities to the first of his dozen-plus rehab stints.

I'm just immensely grateful that the song is about driving a car, and not about having the sex.

So Far... is a clarion call for all the shit we the people crave against our better judgment.  I can't drive, but I can eat pizza.  Black olives, bacon, peppers, extra fuckin' cheese.  Pineapple, if you're nasty--and I am, baby.  Do I want another edible treat injected into the crust of my pizza?  DO I?!

What's the Maryland state penal code number for "dropping a lethal fecal in a public restroom"?

"In My Darkest Hour"--My best friend and I recently found ourselves embroiled in a disturbing and enriching conversation about how often a person's death will not commensurate with the quality of life they lived.  Did the seven men and women aboard the Challenger spacecraft deserve to die in front of millions because it was too fucking cold?  Children with cancer--how is that even permissible?  How can we talk about mortal justice when Hitler gets to call his own final shot, or Jesse Helms gets to stink up the world for 86 tortuously long years?

The tragedy of life and death is that comprehending the scope of it all doesn't spare anyone.  A life lived in thrall of the finer things does not ensure an exit befitting a well-developed intellect and/or moral character.  Mustaine had a friend in mind when he wrote "In My Darkest Hour," a much-loved young man snatched away in an appalling manner.  Did he also carry in his mind the thought that it was all patently unfair when someone so creative and free should be gone, while Dave and his demons carried on?

"Liar"--I noted in the Peace Sells... review that Chris Poland and Gar Samuelson were sacked before work could begin on Megadeth's third album.  I also pointed out that Dave Mustaine, notorious for unleashing his acerbic tongue on any and all who dare displease him, held back on Samuelson.

Chris Poland, however...

"Your girlfriend's got herpes to go with your hep and AIDS."

"Liar" concerns the alleged theft of a Mustaine guitar by his erstwhile partner-in-grime.  I say "alleged" for the sake of fairness, but in complete honesty, listening to "Liar" compels me to side with Dave, given that he's so enraged over this betrayal that he eventually devolves into spitting out quick open couplets to express his resentment.

The devil on Dave's shoulder is really more into 70s Brit-metal than the thrash-y American shit, because all the better for this thieving prick to hear these vitriolic words of truthful truthiness.

"Hook In Mouth"--Ah, I recall the days when the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) stuck their thorns onto everyone's fronts.  It wasn't censorship, no, but it was a great enticement for the indecisive young music consumer whose parents didn't really care if the album their child listened to had a "fuck" or two on it, just so long as the grades stayed good.

"Peace Sells" is the stereotype-smasher everyone seems to love, and I do as well, but I prefer "Hook In Mouth" as a powerful statement and not just a catchy, well, hook in mouth.

Aw man, is that it?  Eight songs?  Megadeth, you need to pack some more tuneskis on these albums, brahs.

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?  

...With Maniacal Articulation...

PEACE SELLS...BUT WHO'S BUYING?
7/20/86

Thanks for the title, Reader's Digest! (And also for the increased word power!)

Roll call!

Dave Mustaine--vox, guitar
Chris Poland--guitar
Dave Ellefson--bass
Gar Samuelson--drums

"Wake Up Dead"--Lyin', cheatin', boozin', usin'...Megadeth remain the most overtly human of their peers, reveling in the sordid routine of society's detritus.  Only Mustaine seems willing to tackle how sex both makes and breaks us.  (Mind you, it's boozy woozy sex, both partners holding back the puke while jerking frantically, gritting their teeth and waiting for someone--preferably the other one--to finally just collapse already.)

Eh, the lyrics are secondary to the musical calisthenics, anyway.

"The Conjuring"--You know his name.  Look up the number.  (Spoiler:  it begins with a "6.")

The song that convinced Kerry King he wasn't getting the most out of his thesaurus.  Megadeth's early stuff lacks, for me, the replay value of Slayer's releases.  But when I do get around to revisiting their 80s material, I realize the reason:  rigorous dedication to composing tracks that a Mensa-ready serial killer would listen to while in the aura phase.

"Peace Sells"--You'd have to be a simpleton worthy of living forever to not recognize the worldwide need for change, much less desire that change.  But does trusting the powers-to-be to provide such change make you the most hopelessly dim of creatures?

Sneering cynicism is the appropriate response to the commodification of a basic human right.  Dave knows he's smarter than the other people in the room, and wittier to boot 'em up the ass, with a dearth of the humility that lets those other people off the hook (a compromise that really does happen all too often).  The last minute of "Peace Sells" is ideal to rouse a battalion.  As well as drunk Europeans who've been standing half-naked in a mud field for seven hours.

Most impressively,  "Peace Sells" is a single that sounds palatable enough to win over new ears but not drastic enough to turn away the hardcore fan.  Many people who never gave a thorough listen to any Megadeth full-length know this one as the "theme" for MTV News (incidentally, MTV weren't obligated to pay diddly-poo to the band, thanks to some shrewd editing). 

"Devil's Island"--A response to "Ride the Lightning" wherein the condemned receive a sort-of reprieve.

The first stretch of the drive is dodgy for all the black ice, but after the first exit, I get the feeling I've been down this road a few times already.  Is that a bad thing?  No, 'cause this ain't a bad road.  The signs on either side read "pernicious" and "noisome" and "KFC/Roy Rogers/IHOP."  Now how am I supposed to know where to stop?

"Good Mourning/Black Friday"--In 1983, a fella named Dijon Carruthers was Megadeth's drummer for a couple minutes.  He was uncomfortable with his ethnicity and dabbled in the occult with some buddies.  So clearly he wasn't 'Deth material.  He did, however, provide the inspiration for a song, and if the slaughter-death-kill theme isn't exactly scintillating for its novelty, the tune itself stomps with the indelible power of a a bloody boot print.  And credit where it's due,  Mustaine's savage volubility is delivered with all the smug self-satisfaction of the seldom-sated savage.

Let's injure shoppers.  Let's lay pipe to head, and cover it up with rubbing alcohol to the exposed brain.

"Bad Omen"--Megadeth stroll with Satan solely to shout shenanigans shortly thereafter.  Bad-ass 'Bub with all the minions and the rituals--whadda crock.  The indictments here are subtle--a word that King and co. understand just fine, but choose to ignore in favor of the basic one-liner, followed by one finger.

"I Ain't Superstitious"--From the hands of Willie Dixon, best known from the mouth of Howlin' Wolf.  Again, Dave mangles the source material with his own puerility, but unlike "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'" I can actually envision the original artist singing along to the alterations.  Fairly catchy, certainly confident (I would never accuse the lady of OD'ing on the protests).  And hey, can Metallica say any of their recordings were used to hawk Hondas on Japanese TV?

"My Last Words"--Another deceitfully delicate start to be found here.  Then it's back to the USSR with a gun in your mouth.

Megadeth are still developing the art of being highly technical while still crafting endlessly listenable songs, and also cultivating the side-along art of indulging their crass instincts without being easily eschewed as "tasteless."  Their second album shows great strides made all around, and it's clear they don't have far to go until attaining near-perfection.  (Perfection is not a desirable state.  There is no possible way to improve upon perfection, and if you are not constantly seeking to improve, why are you an artist?  Why are you alive?



Peace Sells... was Megadeth's second and final album with its original recording lineup.  Both Chris Poland and Gar Samuelson (who had worked together prior to joining Dave's militia) were fired for excessive drug use.  While Poland's firing gave Mustaine fuel for future material, he always seemed regretful that things didn't work out with Samuelson.  Not only was he one of the few less-be-more skinmen in the genre at the time, Dave clearly respected his creative acumen:  it was Gar who told Mustaine that "Peace Sells"  had real potential as a single release, and shouldn't be an eight-minute epic.  Now how many frontmen will listen to their drummer re: such a significant issue?  Especially a well-documented self-absorbed shithead like David Mustaine?

Gary "Gar" Samuleson passed away on 7/22/99 at the age of 41, of liver failure.  The remastered version released in 2004 is dedicated to his memory.