Godhead
2000 Years of Human Error
(Posthuman / Priority records)
by Dave Clary
A lot of cultures believe that someone’s life is not truly complete until he or she has had children, guided them through life’s trials, and seen them off, successful in their own right. The same is basically true in rock and roll. All too often, those hard rockers start to mellow out in their old age, and their nurturing instincts finally kick in. But by then, their scores of illegitimate children already have a deep-seated resentment for their absentee celebrity parents, so what does a rocker do to play daddy or mommy?
Our hypothetical rocker starts a label and produces up-and-coming bands that happen to sound a lot like him, that’s what. Of course, Trent Reznor wasn’t all that old when he started Nothing records and signed Marilyn Manson, but the general theory still holds. And now Trent’s a grandpa, since Manson started Posthuman records, and signed D.C.-based Godhead as his first prot‚g‚; 2000 Years of Human Error is proving to be an impressive chip off the old block.
Of course, the musical progression from Nine Inch Nails to Godhead is anything but direct, meaning that Godhead’s version of guitar-driven industrial isn’t necessarily the same as their forebears. In fact, the sonic vibe and song structure bear a closer resemblance to Stabbing Westward than Manson, and frontman Jason Miller sings not with a scratchy growl, but with a more classically-trained, pop-tinged croon akin to Tool’s Maynard Keenan. The resemblance is more cosmetic than anything else.
2000 Years starts solidly with “The Reckoning,” a paean against organized religion, and “I Sell Society,” which rails against a more general demagoguery. Both set the tone for the rest of the album, exhibiting the typical but effective structure of guitar-based industrial, even bearing a close resemblance to the soft verse-loud chorus feel of standard power-pop (ala Nirvana). This is what Godhead does best, hiding their Gothic imagery and themes in a coating that tastes comfortable and familiar. This is most evident in their cover of The Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby,” which they clearly make their own, but only by finding and highlighting the essential sepulchral quality of the song that was already there.
While Jason Miller accounts for most of the songwriting, the band is a cohesive unit, and the programming of the Method is particularly spot-on, always providing the ambiance required at any given time. Mike Miller’s guitar inhabits the songs rather than standing out, but his technical prowess is occasionally evident, giving the effect of an introverted Tom Morello. Those moments when Godhead slows down, like in “Tired Old Man” and “I Hate Today,” are when they truly come into their own, revealing a depth and level of skill that will allow them to become something special in their own right, with or without Manson to mentor them.
Ultimately, what separates Godhead from the majority of industrial is their accessibility. Throbbing Gristle they are not, but rather the logical progression of a trend that started in the early eighties. Just as KMFDM was an easier pill to swallow than Einsturzende Neubauten, and just as NIN was easier still, Godhead is the industrial band of today whose well-crafted hooks and textural flexibility will make them more likable in the public eye. They’re freaks, if you want to put it that way, but they’ll grow on you. I promise.
***1/2
In and Of Itself
In and Of Itself
(Motown Records)
by Dan Carlin
Despite its ostensibly Kantian title, In and Of Itself seems more the work of Nietzsche/Tyler Durden devotees than disciples of the ponderous metaphysician. Throughout the power trio’s energetic debut album, vocalist Stephen King (no relation to the author) pontificates about the fundamental problems of society and popular culture.
Fortunately, though, the album doesn’t depend too much on the strength of its philosophical convictions. Rather, the appeal here is a satisfying mix of solid hard rock songs and melodic ballads.
While a solid effort, In and of Itself certainly has its flaws. On “Simplicity,” King performs a strange sort of spoken word about the degeneration of society: “Our wheels keep turning, our hearts keep yearning. My only question is, have we really been learning?” His lyrics often sound ponderous to begin with, but their silliness is made painfully obvious when he intones his lines, rather than sings them (thankfully, “Simplicity” is only one of two spoken word tracks on In and Of Itself).
The rest of the album has an almost immediate allure to it. On “Alice,” the group creates a lovely, startlingly catchy tune that expresses tortured love by moving from crystalline guitar chords and gentle, passionate singing to distorted, crunching chords and pained vocals. Ironically, this radio-friendly track precedes “One Hit Wonder,” a bitter, cynical criticism of ephemeral top 40 bands and those who support them. The liquid, slithery guitar riff and power chords at the opening of “Down,” one of the album’s best tracks, suggests classic Metallica, while a brief diversion into nimble prog-rock recalls Yes’ “Heart of the Sunrise.”
The tracks work best when they embrace this sort of musical flexibility. The band misses this completely on the spoken-word word “Joshua,” which, with King’s monotonous, unpleasant delivery and the constant, grating sound of guitars makes for entirely unpleasant listening. Still, this failure represents more of an exception than the rule of the album.
The members of In and Of Itself all have extensive music training (two have Masters degrees in music), but they rarely employ particularly complex or sophisticated musical phrases. On “One Hit Wonder” and “Simplicity,” guitarist King indulges in a little Steve Vai-style shredding, but for the most part, on In and Of Itself, flashy musicianship takes a back seat to solid, renewable, rock songwriting.
***1/2
Drowningman
Rock and Roll Killing Machine
(revelation Records)
by Molly Sutter
Since the decline of the early 90’s grunge establishment, adolescents and other like-minded, angry souls have searched for a new way to express their angst through music. Ska assumed the burden for a short period of time, with painful lyrics hidden behind the thick layers of horns, but now the mantle of teenage depression has passed to angry rock metal groups such as Limp Bizkit and Korn. Drowningman may not want to be like the mainstream metal-rock out today, but if that’s what they’re shooting for, they’re landing flat on their anxiety-ridden faces.
The first line of Drowningman’s promo sheet reads, “If music could kill, there would be a five-day waiting period to purchase Rock and Roll Killing Machine.” Thank goodness for that, because they’re deadly to the eardrums. There’s nothing wrong with angry young men making albums to express their fear, pain, and hate, but all this band accomplishes is a lot of guitar thrashing and screaming with next to no variety. Running at just under half an hour, Drowningman’s nine songs sound nearly identical. The few bright points in the album are not worth bothering with compared to the dismal noise that dominates.
The tracks feature such titles as “Last Week’s Minutes From the Meeting of the Secret Society of Your Friends Who Actually Hate You,” and “God Loves a Winner He’s Going to Want to Fuck Me in a Minute (Born to Break Even).” These clever titles speak of paranoia and hatred, two themes-along with death and fear-that are present on every track.
Even the constant spewing of such depressing topics would possibly be bearable, but vocalist Simon Brody decides to scream all of them. Loudly. Inarticulately. Badly. However, in all fairness, there are a scattering of spots where Brody tones it down, like in the track “Last Week’s Minutes,” when he claims, “Softest words aimed like a gun at the back of my throat / You said it anyway / I can hear it in the back / I can hear them in the hall / I can hear them when they say anything at all.” Wow, a valid, universal theme that is well expressed. But then the yelling begins again.
The guitars, alas, also lack any sense of restraint in their consistent thrashing at a pace to make heads roll. Described as “dual guitar mind-fucks,” one should proceed with caution when listening to most guitar solos on Killing Machine, partly because they’re loud, but mostly because they’re bad. The intro to “The Truly Dangerous Nature of a Man Who Doesn’t Care if He Lives or Dies,” is actually pretty catchy. On “Code Breaking Hearts,” a Soundgarden-esque intro is a nice surprise. Still, the drums and guitars are usually out of whack. Combined with the already panned vocals, the album is little more than one roaring headache.
Claiming to be “unstable” and to possess “fragile psyches” is all well and good, but if Drowningman can’t make good music to back up their homicidal tendencies, audiences won’t care if this band sinks or swims.
*
American Hi-Fi
American Hi-Fi
(Island Records)
by Vasant Ramamurthy
On paper, American Hi-Fi is a great band. The brand new, Boston-based quartet certainly boasts a strong pop pedigree: lead singer/guitarist/songwriter Stacy Jones earned his stripes as the drummer for Boston’s beloved jangle popsters Letters to Cleo and later with Chicago’s girly-metal favorites Veruca Salt. Drummer Brian Nolan was a member of the defunct Chicago rock band Figdish. Also, the band happily provides an impressive list of albums that influenced them, those of which range from underground staples like My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless and the Pixies’ Doolittle to classic rock standards like Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy and Kiss’ Double Platinum to power pop blueprints of the `70s (Cheap Trick’s In Color), `80s (Redd Kross’ Phaseshifter) and `90s (Weezer’s self-titled debut).
Ay, there’s the rub. On paper, Matchbox 20 could be called “earnest, soulful rock,” Limp Bizkit would be “hip hop and rock with an aggressive, in-your-face attitude,” and the Barenaked Ladies are “quirky, fun-loving pop.” Point is, these third-rate descriptions are utterly useless and best left to Sam Goody ads and music reviews in Seventeen. All the colorful and essentially euphemistic press descriptions, influences, and band connections don’t mean a damn thing if the music can’t hold its own.
And so, on to American Hi-Fi. It definitely would be unfair to lump a wide-eyed, well-meaning rookie band in with seasoned veterans of dreck. But American Hi-Fi also doesn’t allow itself to be placed on the opposite end of the spectrum. In a time where it’s increasingly crucial for a band to display something distinctive and original in their work, American Hi-Fi is utterly ordinary.
Not that any of this is their fault, or even a fault. Since American Hi-Fi’s style of arena-sized power riffs married with delicious pop hooks has been done time and again in rock, there’s really nothing left for the band to distinguish itself. The aforementioned power pop pioneers had something special; Cheap Trick was bafflingly brilliant and ridiculously perverse in a time when lifeless `70s dinosaur rock was king, while Weezer’s goofy, nerdy charm struck a chord with listeners burnt out on dour grunge rock. American Hi-Fi has nothing of this sort to speak of.
Which is not to say that they can’t be reasonably successful on a level based purely on enjoyment; you simply can’t deny the power of an infectious hook, and this album, to its credit, clearly isn’t lacking in this department. The first single, “Flavor of the Weak,” in a three-minute burst of driving riffs and pop hooks, laments the situation of a woman relegated to “flavor” status by her philandering boyfriend. The remaining tracks, the standouts of which include “Hi-Fi Killer” and “Scar,” mine similar territory with an admirable effectiveness.
Unfortunately, that’s where it ends. American Hi-Fi can only be admired and enjoyed on a superficial level-which they completely deserve, since Stacy Jones definitely knows his way around a catchy rock song. But, in the end, power pop bands are a dime a dozen-Everclear, Lit, Green Day, take your pick-which ultimately leaves all bands of the genre with a heavy burden to take their songwriting to a more meaningful and memorable level.
**1/2