Life certainly has a way of being attracted towards its ultimate destination – the relative velocity of attainment of that limit of course does depend on multiple factors – the inevitability, however, is something which cannot be escaped from. This probably forms one of the greatest paradoxes humankind would have come to realize witnessing countless mortals, who in their quest to live faster, have gone down quicker than they knew. Making a slight departure from this burst of pseudo metaphysic, and analysing the immediate issue at hand, irony is something which makes its presence felt when comparing what this group of thrash metallic speed-gunners came out with a few years back in the form of ‘St. Anger’ and what we have now in the form of ‘Death Magnetic’. Life long loyalists had felt the tectonic plates of their preferences shifting when they encountered the hollow snared sound on radio friendly tracks minus those excruciating solos on ‘St. Anger’, effectively sounding the death knell for one of the most heavily successful metal acts of all time. ‘Death Magnetic’ however tries to prove itself as the resurrecting force which made the Phoenix rise from its ashes, and successfully so. So what do we call this? The previous album was what signified death, the new one brings back to life aided by a Saint known to turn around dipping fortunes by kicking out all the subdued vitriolic energy, magnetism be damned because you can’t escape it. Viola, the albums could just as well have exchanged their cover sleeves! And now that we have proved ourselves worthy of insightful psychobabble to hold the end of sagging conversations, let’s examine why ‘Death Magnetic’ is actually worthy of any accolades.
To begin with, ‘Death Magnetic’ most definitely has turned out to completely raze to the ground a few of Metallica’s recent affiliations, and at least one major filial association – steel sounding snare, solo-less compunction of melody, abridged spin friendly songs, and yes, Bob Rock. The stellar producer who shaped the sound which was to achieve commercial success previously unknown to any band who dared play heavy is not on this album, but then this is the price you pay if you have to bring yourself back to life. Instead we have Rick Rubin (remember the Saint?), that demi-god of producers, the slightest mention of whose name evokes hushed awe, who took on the job of defining the sound that was to emanate out of the valleys of California this year. Ulrich seems to have found his groove back on the snare and the muffled double bass assisted blitzkriegs, Hammett finally seems to be having fun shredding to pieces all the pent up energy through these years on guitar solos which just seem to go on and on, Hetfield proves himself as a perfect foil on the rhythm sections (although the throatiness of his vocals seems to have tuned itself down a bit, but age catches up even with metalheads, doesn’t it?), and nascent Trujillo makes that till now mostly unheard bass notes stand out booming clear. Each track on this album bears that signature Metallica sound which has familiarized itself by now, starting with ‘Kill ‘em All’ right upto ‘Metallica’, and though all tracks here are equal, as with animals, some tracks are more equal than others. As soon as the intro to the first track ‘That Was Just Your Life’ commences, you immediately slip into the age old comfort of ‘Battery’ with rock solid riffs racing against time, and what follows is just as satisfyingly orgasmic. Be it the grunts on ‘Broken, Beat and Scarred’, the trailblazing on ‘My Apocalypse’ and ‘Suicide and Redemption’ or the achingly melodic ‘The End of the Line’, the stamp of ownership is crystal clear. The stamp however gets a bit more than crystal clear; enough to maybe make even a blind man perceive it, due to influential similarities with quite a few past works (‘Fade to Black’, ‘Battery’, ‘Ride the Lightning’ can be heard at many places), but that can be forgiven by viewing this as an attempt to find the lost sound.
Thus, the Gods have risen from their ashes, and the call to the faithful has been sounded – did someone ask for whom the Bell tolls?
Considering their origins to have had a somewhat ‘im’modest beginning in the form of a burlesque dance act somewhere along the Vegas strip, it leaves you with a feeling that just falls short of absolute bewilderment upon the realization of how effective marketing and impeccable image management has become all of what it probably takes today to make an impact in the big bad world of entertainment. Did anyone say talent? Who needs it today when you have biggie wiggie producers promising to take your career everywhere and record labels ready with green laden attaches as mere advance? We don’t live in a world where longevity is what matters, and when it comes to talking about sheer numbers, everyone knows the three letter word that sells. Kotler and Drucker would be racking their brains wondering why they wrote lexicon upon lexicon extolling the intricacies of successful marketing, while PCD Inc. pared it all down to such rudimentary fundamentals.
The aforementioned however does not undermine in any fashion the stupendous amount of success that PCD achieved with their debut album which went platinum thrice over, which is specially noteworthy considering we live in an age where digital music is the rule of the day. The follow-up album Doll Domination is something which should possibly be viewed as their trial by fire. The musical collaborations on this album boast of some really huge names as producers (Dr. Dre, Timbaland, Darkchild) which definitely adds a good deal of respectability and expectation. This does reflect through on the lead single for this album ‘When I Grow Up’, whose video has become quite a bit of a phenomenon online owing more maybe to the trademark PCD gyrations, while ‘Whatcha Think About That’ comes about as a bit squib not really being able to find a groove for itself amongst the mix. The rest of the album however should give the majority of the clubbing populace some good grooves to make their moves; visual stimuli in the form of accompanying music videos should however make this a bit easier and more successful.
Throughout the history of music, there have been eras which as a thumb rule have occupied the timeline in units of decades, and have had the birth, emergence, establishment and decay of genres which held their mainstay and defined those lengths of time. It does however become quite an interesting study if we try to dig a little deeper and unravel the goings on during that no mans land trapped between these eras, as these inflexion points do tend to throw up quite a few pieces of smoldering brilliance. The 80s was most definitely Hair Metal with bleached blonde hair and close shaven chins, while the 90s saw an angst ridden Grunge shouting hoarse. And between them was a foursome who came out with an eponymous album, which till date has withstood its non-affiliations to either genre. A supergroup (what we call them now, thanks to VH1, but a term virtually non-existent at that time) born out of the collaboration of musicians who were giants, considering their individual talents in their own fairly successful bands, hit the nail’s head with a massive blow, the echoes of whose impact can be heard even today.
Ted Nugent had seen his days of glory with ‘Cat Scratch Fever’; Tommy Shaw had led Styx through the annals of excellence; Jack Blades achieved exuberance with Rubicon and Night Ranger; Michael Cartellone was the only one remaining to complete that kick within the punch that was to form Damn Yankees. Their debut album (and sadly the only one that could register for itself, the second one went unnoticed, the third never saw the light of day) was what best defined the exit of the Glam Rock days. The blues heavy melodies emanating from Nugent’s guitar which had the capacity to pick up all of a sudden and make ferocious encroachments on sane territory proved themselves to be the foundation on which the fantastically soaring octave levels of harmonic duels pitched by Shaw and Blades built magnificent skyscrapers of sound which would leave hearts pounding with acrophobia. You immediately feel that rush of blood as soon as the first track ‘Coming of Age’ picks up motion and by the time you reach ‘Come Again’, you realize the potent combo of Shaw and Blades on vocals, an upward journey which reaches its pinnacle in between when you experience the extremely successful ‘High Enough’ (which has probably become absolutely synonymous with the band) which comes to a screeching halt as soon as you are through with the acceleration of ‘Piledriver’. Hard hitting rock, but woefully gobbled by the melody killing Grunge of the next decade.
Following multitudes of squabbles and having been mired forever in controversy even before he probably started recording during his G-Unit days, Jayceon Terrell aka The Game has walked quite a distance ever since his estrangement from Dr. Dre and 50 Cent – a path which has The Documentary and The Doctor’s Advocate as shining milestones. This work has heavy undertones which run deep and borrow heavily from his roots of the Compton hood, which is well established in the way he calls out to most of his fellow brothas throughout the album. Beginning and ending with DMX, with Weezy making a guest appearance on ‘My Life’ which goes a bit unnoticed, it reaches its high points somewhere in between during ‘House of Pain’ and ‘Touchdown’, and just when you thought it was about over, ‘Letter to the King’ brings forth that mass of emotion flowing out from the soul of the ghetto. The Game isn’t the best rapper around right now, which anyway isn’t something being claimed here. What does get affirmed here is that though this album isn’t completely devoid of flaws, The Game has tried to display a promise again by packing together some tight pacts of hip hop.
The practice of inflicting oneself with a multitude of self assumed nomenclatures sure makes Everlast look like one on a perpetual run while being on the federal hitlist. And on the run he has been through these years, starting with House of Pain, going solo and apparently building up a hip hop super group (La Coka Nostra) now, all the while criss-crossing those boundaries that blur musical genres sitting on fault lines which register upheavals on terra firma owing to the turbulent nature of activities underneath. The latest album from Everlast is one such, which may not be as pathbreaking as ‘Whitey Ford Sings the Blues’, but would definitely stand out in his career as another successful blend of bringing together his brand of a blues based rap acoustic sound. The melancholy longing in ‘Anyone’ continues through in ‘Stone in My Hand’ and ‘Friend’, which feel like odes to all those who formed part of your lives at some points. The oriental influences exhibited on ‘Letters Home from the Garden of Stone’ are a welcome inclusion which add that surreal exotic quality; the icing on the cake however is reserved in the form of the cover of Johnny Cash’s ‘Folsom Prison Blues’. Nice good effortlessly easy listening for your aural capacities.
It wouldn’t be incorrect to call LL Cool J a living legend within the hip hop music industry. After all, which musician can brag of a career which has spanned more than two decades and fairly successfully at that? The ride hasn’t always been uphill, with the last release ‘Todd Smith’ not faring well enough when compared to its predecessors, although we can always refer to ‘Bigger and Deffer’ and ‘Mama Said Knock You Out’ in times of doubt like these. ‘Exit 13’ symbolizes the thirteenth studio album and the last one as part of LL’s record deal with Def Jam, and it looks like he has tried putting in effort to good effect to make the departure with a bang with the holler on the first track ‘It’s Time for War’. Quite a few pop-ish moments which come through fairly well, specially ‘Baby’ assisted by six string finesse of Richie Sambora and the hard hitting ‘Mr. President’ with Wyclef Jean sharing the duties, while R&B influences permeate through on ‘Cry’ and ‘I Fall in Love’, something which the ladies should like. Overall, not really as spectacular as what we have seen in the past, but then what the heck, it’s all Cool when its J.
Uplifter - 311
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