Originally written by Ian Chainey
Germany’s Primal Fear is a project plated with a metal attracting the lightning bolts of ire from young cumulonimbi riding high on the winds of change. (Admission: Specific instances of these Lakitus are, uh, made of straw and navels.) The most glaring/glowering: Though in the game for 17 years, Primal Fear hasn’t exactly changed since their eponymous debut. In fact, one would bet the original recipe has remained the same since Sinner treated an ex-Gamma Ray to dinner: a full cask of German power metal and a splash of ’80s swagger, aged in a now-ten-album-old bottle. Oh sure, there have been some tweaks. Guitarist Alex Beyrodt, who hopped aboard for 2012’s Unbreakable, has shifted the strumming from the speedy ‘oween-y to something resembling an Accept/Saxon buzzsaw. But, for ears not attuned to or pointed towards power metal’s subsonic waves of pleasure, that’s probably not enough. To their lenders, Primal Fear is what it is, just with the added “detriment” (foosh) of settling into brand management mode (rumble, foosh), now shooting for safe senior choices (kra-kow, foosh foosh). However, if those clouds only stopped blowing for a second, Delivering the Black would burn through with beams backed by the true blue. It’s a state of mind thing: the best state is suspension of cynicism. It’s actually hard for Black not to turn the hell on right when you turn off. And, that’s the idea. Snuff the critical firewall. Primal Fear is too fun to keep out, a perceived virus actually boasting positive affects. Prime symptoms: Lips curled into a thing called a “smile.” Originality, go away. Come again another day.
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Credit the ingratiating atmosphere to one of the old dogs: Up front, you notice heavyweight Ralf Scheepers can still dance around the vocal ring despite pushing 50. His larynx is a tad rougher and richer, not the flawless gold throat helming Gamma Ray‘s Heading for Tomorrow in 1990. Nevertheless, it’s appealing; more experienced, a streak of well-earned grey. This works in Fear‘s favor, giving Delivering the Black a grit it tends to lack in the compositions. Bombastic bangers such as “One Night in December” would be Sonata Arctica‘s shed fluff if Scheepers didn’t reach down deeply for his inner Udo. Ralf even assists the more perfunctorily empowering self-mythologizing/idolizing cuts, like the quick-to-fist-pump “Never Pray for Justice.” Come to think of it, a lot of Black references its style signifier, verbally flying the metal flag at all hours. “Inseminoid” is cast from a similar genre-checking mold, the kind of RAWK n’ ROLLER metal has made even before Malice. It’s canny, but, man, is it wrinkled wisdom. (Foosh.) Indeed, that antiquity is an album-wide touchstone, shined with modern production polish. At worst, you realize Primal Fear trots out ponies that are really nags if you check the dentures. But, to be honest, that’s not really the point. Ralf and bassist/backbone Mats Sinner are skilled trainers. That’s the point, all of it in a walnut. Firewall down.
Last point: In the way you can’t ask a tangerine to be a table (apologies, James “I HEART IKEA” Hetfield), you can’t force power metal to be something it’s not without wholly reconfiguring its DNA. Power metal is totally out of ideas and, counterintuitively, that’s what makes it great. You know what you’re getting, comforted in a spiritual way, comparable to a formulaic sitcom hitting familiar beats. Actually, perhaps it’s the push/pull of a classic match replay. Okay, so it’s easier to appraise Primal Fear‘s value on sports team terms: It’s running, generally, the same schemes as the league with different players. It’s not that the songs are different, just the personalities delivering them, each with their own distinguishing virtues and vices. The boon here is these mates are stars, executing what needs to be done with economy and godly ability. That’ll tick off thunder-‘heads who don’t relate to Mt. Olympus and would prefer performers who reflect like a mirror. For the rest of us, Delivering the Black is an idealized existence, ticking boxes with hands we can trust. To circle back: Yeah, it’s as memorable as a nameless summer day. No foosh, that’s fair. Still, in the dead of winter, you grin feeling the ghostly remembrance of warmth.
In the end, the words above are as useless as a hammer made from pinky fingers. Really, this is the single worthy query on the “Should I buy this?” questionnaire: Enjoy rousing chugs, whammy-bar dives, and belting from the chest? Here’s another album: more of the same meat n’ taters, just a little bit better.
