Sometimes we fall in love at first sight.
Sometimes it takes a bit longer.
We’ve all experienced both: that magic moment that means that everything changes in a second, that life will never be the same without our new obsession; or that slower burning variation, the timed-release realization that this thing we’ve always sort of known is suddenly something very important to us.
And in the end, what does it matter, so long as we fall in love?
Like so many American metalheads, I first came across British post-punkers Killing Joke through Metallica’s $5.98 EP. Back then, “Larz and Jaymz” and company covered “The Wait,” originally from Killing Joke’s eponymous debut. I wouldn’t say I loved that cover – although I can’t say I hated it, and either way, it’s safest to say that I didn’t “get it.” I heard Killing Joke described as this heavy influence, with the heaviness relating both to their musical weight and the extent of their importance on what came after. I listened to them, expecting something more metallic, I guess, and I certainly didn’t get that.
So I put the Killing Joke away for fifteen years, but they kept coming back around – always there, floating, lingering. Some five or so years ago, thanks to the persistent nagging of former Last Rites guru Clay Moore, I sat back and gave a second chance to this band that was always lurking just over there…
Call it aging, perspective, whatever: This time, it was instantaneous. I started then with Hosannas From The Basement Of Hell – who knows why; maybe it was the first one I ran across; it doesn’t matter now – and it was brilliant, the kind of thing I never should’ve missed out on, but I clearly had. It was heavy, but yet it wasn’t heavy in the sense I wanted in 1989. It was epic, angry, hypnotic, aggressive; it was pretty much perfect.
Within two months, I had every Killing Joke record I could find. That’s the depth of my love, or of my madness – and what’s the difference, really? When you fall, you fall, and all that matters is that you did.
So here I am now, a Killing joke junkie, with a new record in hand…
And it’s pretty much perfect.
Of course, the above will tell you that I’m biased, and it’s likely very true, but the fact that Killing Joke has been on a five-album run of excellence should lend credence to my claims. Pylon is in line with those discs – there are no great surprises, musically or thematically, but that’s fine. It’s not expansion; it’s refinement. Predominantly, and most importantly, Pylon is Killing Joke doing what Killing Joke does, and doing it pretty much perfectly.
Then as now as almost always, there’s such magic in the hypnotic and heavy riffing, in Geordie’s simple and repetitive chugging atop Youth’s dub-influenced bass lines and Big Paul’s dance-worthy tribal beats. That much remains unchanged, and thankfully so, because it’s the punch of the Joke, the pulse and the blood. Really, Pylon’s only fault is that it’s an album of outwardly similar tunes – the differences are there, but they become most evident only after many listens. Still they’re almost universally great, so that’s anything but a really harsh criticism – more of an observation, if anything… A large part of that uniformity comes from similar tempos, similar songwriting approaches, both to what’s on hand and to the previous two records. I’ll admit that the Joke has settled into a groove, but it’s a good one, so I’m willing to forgive any formula.
Killing Joke is not, and has really never been about the Almighty Riff, about the guitar god with giant hook. And yet, they’re still heavier than most bands, just through their mastery of the tribal beat and the righteous rage, the post-punk aesthetic amped up to near-metallic level. It’s just that their heaviness is a collective one: The bare-bones two-note keyboard riff of “New Jerusalem” is perfect atop Geordie’s chunky rhythm guitars, hooky as hell and with zero excess, whilst another serves as a musical motif in opening rager “Autonomous Zone.”
Throughout Pylon, vocalist Jaz Coleman relies mostly upon a distant, cold tone, with haunting, almost robotic melodies – at times, he dips into that killer full-throated roar that he does so perfectly, but those are used for punctuation. These mostly clean vocals are one of Pylon’s most distinct facets – here, more than on the previous few albums, Coleman’s voice feels intentionally disconnected. It does lessen the immediacy of his trademark rage, but it fits the songs, and somehow, even when given a more distant delivery, Coleman’s sociopolitical anger still feels on point, barbed, and fuming-if-not-furious, in spite of the oddly dispassionate tone.
Still, though it’s a bit of modern Killing Joke-by-numbers, Pylon is an absolute winner, through and through, a Best Of 2015 contender, without a doubt, and it’s both largely because it simply rocks. There are highlights, of course – “Autonomous Zone,” “New Jerusalem,” “I Am The Virus,” the killer drive of “Delete” – and I would say that there are slightly lesser moments, but most of those moments ended up being highlights after repeated listens.
So, really, it comes down to this: Killing Joke is a killer band. If you know that already, then you’ll absolutely love Pylon, without question. And if you don’t know by now, then this a great place to come on board. It’s a train I missed for far too long, and if you did, too, then now you need to change that.
Trust me. It’s worth it.
