The riff, man. The RIFF. Ever since Iommi first laid that heavy slab of Sacramental bread onto our collective tongues, we have all been SAVED – Hallelujah. And surviving all these years later as a fistbanger of the 21st century within a genre that currently appears to be monopolized by swirling “atmospherics” and über-gilded productions that mitigate outright heaviness, it’s often too easy to forget Commandment numero cuatro: Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy. Precisely the reason why it still feels refreshing to come across modern bands that not only uphold the prime riffing directive, but make it the absolute crux of the show. That would be Liverpool’s Conan in a nutshell: Purveyors of the heavy heavy. Protectors of the Woolly Riff. Guardian angels of the blessed Brown Note.
Blood Eagle, full-length number two for this troglodytian trio, ain’t just massively heavy, it’s mFATassively heavy. If it were a country, it would be the United States. If it were a state, it would be West Virginia stuffed inside Alabama, stuffed inside Mississippi. Turducken heavy. The sort of lumbering wallop originally designed by the bruising Lysol era of The Melvins, or Warhorse (minus the psychedelic trappings.) In the modern age, think SUMA or Ramesses and you’re playing in a similar sandbox. Do not – I repeat, DO NOT – bother if your idea of listening simply involves laptop speakers or cheap earbuds; Blood Eagle is the kind of record that demands big, swingin’ hog-ball speakers with cones that wobble like loose whale blubber. Let this sumbitch breeeeathe and your neighbors will weep for an eternity every time they spy you pulling up the driveway when they’ve just settled into an evening of Yerba tea & Cat Stevens. 35 seconds into “Total Conquest” will beat their bones into dust. 6 minutes into “Gravity Chasm” will pour 10 megatons of concrete into their delicate earholes. That sort of heavy. The opening of “Horns for Teeth” would give Bolt Thrower a twelve inch bolt in their pants for a solid week.
If people are going to complain – and by Bombaata’s beard, why wouldn’t they? – they’ll probably complain about the vocals. They sure as hell ain’t “sung,” I’ll tell you that. More like a couple hard-of-hearing cavemen discussing plans of conquest from caves 50 meters apart. “OGG BRING BONEHAMMER.” “TONK BRING TOOTHPUNCHER.” – probably lyrics to one of these songs.
Conan’s Father: “The secret of the riff has always carried with it a mystery. You must learn its riddle, Conan. You must learn its discipline. For no one – no one in this world can you trust. Not men, not women, not beasts.”
[points to guitar]Conan’s Father: “THIS you can trust.”
