As a committed atheist I can honestly say that every Christmas season I find myself looking forward to Boxing day. Still, since we live in a world where luddites rule and belief in magical sky fairies and pretend friends is de rigeur, we can but make the most of this excruciatingly jolly time. Thus, in the spirit of “if you can’t beat them to a pulp, join them” I’ve decided to wish you all the very best for the holiday season and take you back to some metal moments you’d perhaps rather forget – yes, I’m talking METAL CHRISTMAS SONGS!!!
So without further ado, here’s my top 5 metal christmas songs. Why only 5? Because this time of year I feel especially empathic towards my fellow ape-descendants and I want to limit the damage to your feeble little minds.
Now, go forth and make merry – eat till you gag, drink till you spew, and max out the Visa buying cheap Chinese crap for your friends and family. Remember, he who spends most wins. Keep on Jingling!
When I decided to review an early Manowar record, I was torn between Into Glory Ride and Hail To England. Both capture what I believe to be Manowar at their finest. Despite the latter being a far greater commercial success, I decided to review the former – their second release – which for me encapsulates Manowar at their un-self-conscious best.
To be perfectly clear, Manowar are a polarising band. In the late ’80s and early ’90s they were considered fascist by many European headbangers, while today plenty of metalheads consider Manowar nothing more than a cringeworthy bunch of self-deluded tools. And yet, there was a brief window, before their hyper-inflated ego’s leaked like a bloody stain into their music, when they produced something wonderful, almost magical. Before, Joey DeMaio decided that he had to inflict his boring piccolo-bass solos everywhere, and before their “warriors of metal” cant became frankly embarassing – like some half-drunk old uncle banging on and on about the “glory days”.
Looking at the cover, you’d be forgiven for thinking that these guys were taking the piss. Looking like a bunch of steroidal Conan wannabes that have just raided a Hollywood costume department – complete with faux swords, furry nappies and obligatory menacing poses – you would be rightfully tempted to just slide that one back in the record store rack and walk away laughing. If you did that however, you’d be missing out on one of the most powerful albums to be released in 1983.
“Ride, ride, ride. I’m the warlord of the road. Riding, riding, riding. Ain’t never growing old.”
Despite the corny fade-in of (presumably) one of the band members having sex with a teenager and then getting caught by her father (who, judging by the sound of his voice, one can safely assume is a total retard), the album is kickstarted by the opener - Warlord - a rollicking, biker-lifestyle track, in the same heavy-rock style as the songs from their first album, Battle Hymns.
As the opening track fades out, we are left unprepared for the doom-laden, mythic blast of bombast that is Secret of Steel. With pounding drums, Scott Columbus proved his worth as the newest member of the band. This track is one of several on the album that seem specially crafted as vehicles for Eric Adams’ majestic vocal abilities. Here is a singer who can seamlessly transition from softly sung whispers to epic operatics to rock schlock. His voice bristles with effortless power and polished nobility. The song’s sombre pace and mythical lyrics ably supported by guitars that stay out of Eric’s way.
The third track Gloves of Metal, is typical of a lot of later Manowar fare – earnestly praising the metal brotherhood: “we wear leather, we wear spikes – we rule the night!”. Yeah, whatever…although I must truthfully admit that as a young fella (i.e. complete idiot) I was as hooked on the “brotherhood” BS as any other die-hard.
“Death’s chilling wind blows through my hair. I’m now immortal – I am there!”
Fortunately, the album veers back on track – and how! – with Manowar’s greatest song ever, the beautiful Gates of Valhalla. If this track doesn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, then check your pulse because you might be dead. An operatic ode to the mythology of the Norse gods and the warrior’s heaven -Valhalla – this song is an uncontested masterpiece. Eric Adams is at his absolute finest giving us wings and taking us from pure poetry to riding with the Valkyries. Words can’t describe just how good this song is so check out the following clip of the band performing it live:
“Gates of Valhalla” live
Amazingly, this masterpiece is followed by another. Hatred is a superbly crafted song whose every bar, every note, precisely conveys the author’s malevolence. The guitar work by Ross “the Boss” Friedman on this is genius – never has a whammy bar been wielded so mightily, nor amplifier feedback been mastered so completely in the service of evil. The tortured demonic wailing at death-march pace relentlessly flagellates your mind for fully 7 minutes and 42 seconds. This would have to be the favourite track of the Emperor from Star Wars. Not even Yoda (the little smart-arsed muppet) could withstand the withering assault of misanthropy spewed forth in this song. Brilliant.
Revelation (Death’s Angel), is a well delivered, faster paced track based on the biblical Book of Revelations by St.John the Divine (the completely baked more like). It’s hard to judge this song objectively given the superlative tracks it follows, nevertheless it is holds its own and restores the pace as we near the end of the album.
The closer, March for Revenge (by the Soldiers of Death), tells the story of a vengeful band of warriors wreaking a terrible revenge (duh!) on those who killed one of their own. OK, it is cliched, but we’re talking about Manowar after all, and despite the corny subject matter, they manage to produce a highly enjoyable number whose chorus – “Maim and kill them! Take the women and children!” – is sung to a surprisingly jolly riff (replete with tinkling bells).
To those that have never head Manowar before I urge you to listen to this album. You won’t regret the journey you take. And to those that have been totally over them for years, take the time to give this one another shot. The diamonds it contains are well worth the trip down memory lane.
Van Halen. The name conjures up summer, girls, hanging out, good times and above all, rock and roll. Their eponymous first album is an absolute classic. An American beauty that exemplifies all that’s best of west-coast rock. The wonderful cocktail of Eddie Van Halen’s effortless rock-guitar histrionics, and David Lee Roth’s languorous vocals (always delivered with a smile) make for a heady mixture that is perfectly rendered on this record.
I’ll dispense with the tiresome history – go read Wikipedia. Suffice to say, the band is the love child of Van Halen brothers Eddie (lead guitar) and Alex (drums). At a time when disco ruled and its nemesis – the punk movement was gaining mainstream airplay, Van Halen was a breath of fresh air in the straight rock genre.
It’s hard to believe that this classic was released almost 32 years ago – on the whole, the songs have held up amazingly well. The record opens with Running With The Devil, a sober little number, tinged with bombast that contrasts with the band’s reputation for light-hearted fare. Roth’s softly sung verses brought home by powerful harmonies (which the band employ to great effect on a few tracks). Eddie’s fretwork is restrained on the opener, however he lets fly on the instrumental Eruption which at 103 seconds, is literally an eruption of his mammoth talent (did I mention the band were originally called Mammoth?). He is truly the guitar tapping virtuoso par excellence.
Eruption segues perfectly into a classic cover of the Kink’s You Really Got Me. This was the first Van Halen track I heard on the radio and to say I was amazed is an understatement. Performing covers is always a risky proposition for a band trying to make it. A great rendition can catapult you to overnight fame, while a flop detracts from any good original material and the band is instantly consigned to the dustbin of history. For Van Halen, this was a massively successful single and it did indeed help to rocket the band to stardom and cement this album as one of the highest selling debuts by a rock band ever.
“You know you’re semi-good lookin’ and on the streets again. Yeah you think you’re really cooking babe, you better find yourself a friend, my friend.”
The next track, Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love is a somewhat twisted tale of un-romance, well delivered. It’s followed by the ball-tearing I’m The One, a fast-paced rock classic where EVH’s 90 mile an hour relentless riffing and soloing seem to defy the laws of physics for the amount of shredding he fits into less than four minutes. Amazingly, they even manage to squeeze in a four-part barber shop harmony with perfect ease. Bloody brilliant.
I’m not sure if pole-dancing was as popular in 1978 as it is today, yet if there was ever a rock riff deserving of a sweet young thang bumping and grinding to its melody, then the chorus of Jamie’s Cryin’ is that riff. Atomic Punk is a somewhat ordinary album filler, but the band can be forgiven in light of the banquet that’s offered on the rest of this fine record.
“I can’t wait to feel your love tonight…OOOOH!”
Its only when we hit the eighth track, Feel Your Love Tonight that we finally get that west-coast sound that Van Halen is primarily known for. Its worth emphasising just how tight a unit Van Halen are on this record. The two diva’s (Eddie and Roth) ably assisted by the musical mastery of Alex on drums and Michael Anthony on bass. Not only were the guys excellent musos, they all had decent voices, put to frequent good use with multi-part harmonies, as typified on this song and the follow-on Little Dreamer.
The penultimate track Ice Cream Man is one of my personal favourites. It starts as a simple little acoustic 12-bar blues number with Dave’s droll twanging vocals inviting the ladies to lascivious thoughts. The guys then plug back in, to deliver an electrifyingly refreshing take on the standard 12-bar form. Again, Eddie’s guitar is the perfect foil for Dave’s laconic vocal style.
The band finish big with the aptly named On Fire – which they certainly were.
Rarely do a band burst forth on to the rock scene in the way Van Halen did. Dripping with talent, they delivered an iconic record which deserves a place in everyone’s collection. If my review hasn’t convinced you of the merits of this fine album, just ask yourself “Could ten million people (who bought this album) be wrong?”
When JR dumped this on my lap I must admit I was somewhat skeptical. Let’s face it – Slayer’s recent releases haven’t been exactly Earth shattering. For a while it seemed as if Tom Araya’s vocal ability had been reduced to mindless, juvenile shouting – all sense of nuance lost in the repetitive yelling. Uninspired lyrics and stilted, jarring and increasingly noisy riffs were painfully reducing this once awesome band to a cliched parody of itself (KISS anyone?). After enjoying “Slayer, the Musical“, I was wary of polluting my memory of this great band with some new abomination. I needn’t have worried…
The title track opens not as a sledgehammer to the face but a whisper in the ear. An incessant, insistent whisper like a schizophrenic’s shadow that rapidly builds to a rapid-fire rhythm – the jagged riff underscored by an almost tribal drum beat. The band use tempo changes to great effect in this song, with such a surfeit of memorable riffs that one wonders whether the guys have drained their creative cup dry before the second track even begins. Thrash, mosh, doom – its all there.
“Angels fall. Wings of fire, crucified. Terrorising man – brutal world.”
The production values are excellent and the guitar sound is just so sweet (never heard that word in a Slayer review before!). Its no wonder that “World Painted Blood” is the third single cut from this release.
The album proceeds through the well executed if more mundane “Unit 731″ – fairly typical Slayer thrash before landing on “Snuff” – where, despite an opening that had me thinking “oh no”, those sweet guitars are put to great effect in the chorus with its arabic-influenced flourishes – an excellent counterpoint to the frantic verses. This is followed by the fine melodic dirge “Beauty Through Order”. Tempo changes again don’t fail to loosen those stiff neck muscles.
The album is peppered with little nods to their earlier discography – from the fade-in opening that reminds of “Hell Awaits” to the start of “Psychopathy Red” with its overtones of “Evil Has No Boundaries”.
The second single “Hate Worldwide” I found slightly disappointing – not in and of itself – its a capable rendition of a representative Slayer track – but its not the standout that I expected from a track chosen as a single. Then again – in these days of iTunes – who actually buys singles?
“Human Strain” takes us back into a more measured pace with its eery spoken interlude – the repeating single guitar notes overlayed by a far more engaging Araya vocal delivery. This is followed by the anthemic “Americon” telling the story of recent American history through the prism of cold, hard reality.
“It’s all about the motherfucking oil. We gotta shove the flag upon each soil.”
“Psycopathy Red” is the first single to be released from the album and is a classic Slayer track by any definition. Breakneck, melodic thrash of the finest sort let down slightly by – (I hate to say it) – too much yelling. Tom dude, give it a rest – we know how to work a volume knob and we CAN FUCKING HEAR YOU, OK?! Sheesh, give your vocal chords a break and maybe you’ll be able to get through a gig without so many “guest” vocal appearances.
Anyway, Its clear that the band have made a conscious decision to introduce more melody into their work. This is borne out by Dave Lombardo who virtually admits that Tom’s recent vocals have been alienating long time fans.
“[Tom's] vocal melody and singing approach is very listener-friendly — not in a way where people are going to say, ‘Dude, they went commercial.’ No way. It’s just more melodic. People are scared of the word melody because maybe it sounds like a happy word. But you can have very dark, extreme music with melody. It’s not something to be afraid of.” – Dave Lombardo.
Rounding out this delivery we have the excellent “Playing With Dolls” and “Not Of This God”, and we’re reminded once again just how good these musicians are. While the album does not quite reach nor exceed their early string of classics (from “Show No Mercy” through to “South Of Heaven”), it is certainly a great step back in the right direction, reflecting the band’s choice to develop the songs in the studio as opposed to their recent efforts where the albums have been fully formed before they started recording. And though Tom still shouts his way through numerous verses, the times he doesn’t remind us just how effective his voice can be. Tom – if you’re out there – we love you man – just ease up a bit. Your songs will be better for it.
Throughout history, many have sought power and fortune by swearing fealty to the Devil. However doing deals with the Prince of Darkness requires both a light grip on reality and a sober comprehension of the quid pro quo required. A life of wealth and pleasure can be yours for the mere price of your eternal soul (and let’s face it, after reading that heaven consists of an eternity of praising a vain God with unceasing hosannas interspersed with the occasional trumpet blast, the comparative value of an eternal soul seems somewhat diminished). When you have pledged yourself to Satan there is but one rule if you don’t wish to avoid a merciful fate, and that is…don’t break the oath.
This is no ordinary album review.
Ever since I was a kid reading horror themed comics and watching a slew of Satan inspired 60’s and 70’s late night TV fillers I have been magnetically drawn to all things demonic. I didn’t grow up in a particularly religious household but I remember avidly reading the New Testament’s Book of Revelations (which reads like the demented screenplay for a big-budget Hollywood horror blockbuster). Yet despite this or perhaps because of it, my devotion to all things occult blossomed as I grew. Aleister Crowley became a mentor. Anton LaVey an instructor. My fondness for such subject matter was a raw attraction towards, not a repulsion of the saccharine stifling of conventional Christian rites. Their message of intellectual freedom and personal power perfectly contrasted the meek and servile submission peddled by the ignorant and hypocritical messengers of Yahweh.
“Some people have lost their way. Some people have lost their mind.”
When I first heard Mercyful Fate’s Don’t Break The Oath, I was 19, at university, and had been perfectly primed for the message it carried. I therefore confess that this review cannot help but be biased. Despite my subsequent self-annihilation and rebirth as a sane human years later this album continues to maintain a relentless grip on my imagination rekindling dormant memories and reanimating a world that for me has been dead a long time.
This album, along with its predecessor Melissa, is quite rightly considered one of the finest black metal records of all time. I should say one of the finest metal albums period. While Mercyful Fate are credited as one of the founders of the black metal genre, they are the polar opposites of co-founders Venom. Where the latter were a brute force, delightfully battering the senses with their delivery (often playing at the edges of their limited abilities), Mercyful Fate offered a highly melodic, capable, refined and ultimately sinister window into their ungodly vision.
The album was recorded in 1984 under the laudable production of Henrik Lund a year after the equally well produced Melissa. The record opens with A Dangerous Meeting – the rapid sawing of guitars giving way to a melody faintly reminiscent of early Iron Maiden yet stamped with a distinctive style. This penumbral song a perfect introduction to the tracks that await.
If you have never listened to Mercyful Fate or King Diamond then we must confront the issue of the voice. If Frankie Valli had desisted from “walking like a man” and had instead forsaken his soul singing in the service of Satan then he could quite possibly have gone on to father King Diamond, the Fate’s distinctive vocalist. KD’s operatic blending of tenor and falsetto harmonies is at times uncannily reminiscent of Valli. Many fervent headbangers who admittedly adore the music and admire the song-writing are instantly put off by KD’s voice. You are either for or against. With us or against us. There can be no middle ground. Listen for yourself and decide.
His voice is at its best in Desecration of Souls, the third track. The soaring falsetto harmonies overlaying his anguished singing is truly wonderful. The song is pumped along with a classic NWOBHM riff most ably accented with completely fitting and wonderful guitar solos by Hank Shermann and Michael Denner.
The album’s songs are linked by a story arc begun on the previous album – Melissa. It loosely follows a theme of devotion by the protagonist to his lost love and his subsequent quest to achieve reparation for his loss. Said reparation is of course sought through the agency of the dark one.
The second side (yes, I’ve got this on LP) begins with the epic telling of The Oath. The ethereal beginning echoes Black Sabbath with the tolling bell and falling rain. This forms a backdrop for the pipe-organ introduction which gives way to a rocking rhythm. While the risk of wallowing in cliche is large at this point, the sheer beauty of the melody and nobility of the lyrical delivery never let the concept falter. The song links several memorable riffs interspersed with great double solos. Underpinning all this, Timi Hansen’s bass playing makes Steve Harris proud. Surely, this paean to Lucifer must be the most listened to track on Satan’s iPod.
The Oath is followed by the foot-stomping, head-banging Gypsy. Its melodic style cementing the unique personal sound of this awesome band. Mercyful Fate have not failed to deliver on this record. Every song reinforces their polished yet brooding style and evokes a convincing and ever increasing sense of menace. From Nightmare which starts off a boppy little number that shifts back down a gear braking the tempo yet increasing the menace, to the etheric and evocative instrumental To One Far Away. The album ends with the fitting Come To The Sabbath, a fine, melodic, almost speed metal rendition of a coven’s ritual to curse the murderer of Melissa.
Our connection to art defines its value. I have related a very personal story about this record, revealing what it means to me. I am a legendary Black Sabbath fan, yet if I were stuck on the proverbial desert island, it is this album which I would wish to accompany my lonely yet gratifying decay into despair. Go. Get. Listen.
Its 1986, and on August 9 a compelling Lemmy was first heard to belt out the line above to the rollicking tune of Doctor Rock – the kind of hard rocking tune for which Motörhead are best known and what arguably should’ve been the opening track (it was the eighth) on their Orgasmatron album. If you haven’t heard of Motörhead then welcome back from Pluto (where you’ve obviously been hiding for the past thirty years). Motörhead constitute an entire chapter in the history of rock and roll. While they are sometimes classed as a speed metal band (often being credited for harnessing the energy of the punk movement in the 70’s and creating the genre), most of their songs would be recognised by the uninitiated as variations of straight rock’n'roll riffs given a shot of speed. It’s no coincidence that they’re one of the bands most frequently cited as inspiration for the music-making rockin’ hordes that followed them.
With the subtlety of a brick through the window or a 2 by 4 to the back of the head, the band rip straight into one of their heaviest tracks ever, the album opener Deaf Forever. A bombastic ode to viking battle as allegory for struggling bands, with the useful advice to stay “deaf forever to the battle’s din” i.e. ignore the losers, posers and negative nabobs and just stay true to your music. Honest advice which the band themselves have always held dear to their hearts (for those with OCD for factual correctness the citation for this reference was pulled out of my arse).
To anyone that’s familiar with their earlier work (including such great hits as Ace of Spades, Iron Fist, Overkill and Bomber) two things immediately stand out. Firstly, the production values of Orgasmatron are a quantum leap ahead of any of their previous work (with the exception to the four “new” tracks on the No Remorse compilation which included the chart topper Killed By Death). Bill Laswell’s fresh production managed to capture the band’s raw sound while avoiding the cliches that grace most recordings at the heavy end of the spectrum.
The second thing that stands out is the considerably heavier tone. Songs like the aforementioned Deaf Forever and Orgasmatron are classic heavy metal tracks with enough cross-over appeal to reach out to fans and non-fans alike. Its no co-incidence that this album made it to 21 in the UK album charts (no mean feat for a metal record in a year in which the public couldn’t get enough Whitney Houston).
“Just watch me flip the bird, right in your lyin’ eyes.”
The album quickly reverts to Motörhead’s usual high-speed attack with the effective Ain’t My Crime leading into the delightful Claw, a breakneck depiction of romance Motörhead style. The piston-like drumming accentuating the subject matter and counterpointing Lemmy’s half-tempo, bourbon-and-fags tempered vocal growl.
Mean Machine continues the frenetic pace with a blistering 144 bpm pace and lyrical references to past albums. A word of warning though – don’t listen to this track while driving unless you enjoy the sound of police sirens, as it is impossible to stay under the speed limit with this song in your ears.
The album then shifts back a gear into the workman-like Built For Speed. Unfortunately, there are a couple of tracks on the album which are fairly pedestrian. Nothing Up My Sleeve and Ridin’ With the Driver both vie for the ignominious honour of worst track. If I had to pick a worst – it would be the latter which really has no redeeming qualities. Ironically, it was also the subject matter for the cover which features War-Pig (Motörhead’s instantly recognisable logo) grafted onto a speeding locomotive (apparently at Lemmy’s insistence – “I want a fuckin’ train”).
Fortunately the penultimate track Doctor Rock raises the bar once again in time for the powerful, anthemic title track. Orgasmatron is by my reckoning one of the best Motörhead songs ever. Its slow fade-in over phased guitars intimating impending menace. The band don’t often go for heavy messages, however the lyrics of Orgasmatron convey a prophetic warning as the unholy trinity of false messiahs – religion, politics and the military industrial complex – are exposed in all their brazen nakedness. The lyrics are punctuated by the almost martial beat of the music – considerably slower than most of their tracks. Its easy to imagine an army marching to this tune.
“All my promises are lies, all my love is hate. I am the politician and I decide your fate.”
Well, there you have it folks. I take my duties to educate you very seriously and I hope that this first lesson has inspired you to seek out some Motörhead. You owe it to yourself to grab a copy of this album as it is a cracking example of the band at their finest – an essential addition to any metal collection.
Strange how this Internet thing works sometimes. Many, many years ago – when the Earth was still young and the ‘net was non existent, I was friends with a dear, dear fellow who opened my eyes and my mind to many things wide and afar.
As time escaped from us all, we lost contact but I always remembered him for the true friend that he was and of the many good times we shared.
So through the monstrosity known as Facebook, we have re-established contact and Mick the Wiz (as we all knew him then) is back in my life and now, will be an integral part of Dogmatic.
It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you all – Mick the Wiz.
Over to you Mickey!
In the misty morning, on the edge of time, I once made mountains shake with laughter as I played.
A boundless god was I, strutting from world to world. No childish mischief ever left unmade.
With furrowed brow and clutching hands, I clawed at lore satanic never told.
And watched in horror mixed with glee the devilish consequences unfold.
No repentence mine nor self-respect as wilfully I stared into the abyss.
Casting dice with Satan, my soul’s tipping point a target hard to miss.
Yet, ‘ere false starts and false gods, an earthly angel barred my way.
Despite failing sight and Samson’s loss, shreds of sanity and dignity were saved.
Now, old and frayed, my mind restored, yet scarred from battles past.
I regale all with tales of old, and laugh and drink at follies passed.
My tales of minstrels iron-forged shall be from years of yore.
Cessation now; head out of arse, ‘ere I become a bore.
(BTW, I’m the bald one on the left – the other one’s Jeff from Carcass)
