Thanksgiving Turkeys – 2016’s Fowlest Flops

Stand back, because I’m about to drop an idea bomb that you’ll never believe: Some albums are really good, but some albums really suck. Like, really, really, really suck.

I know it’s hard to fathom, but it’s totally true.  Every year has its share of disasters, of course. Sometimes you get total turds like the absolutely unlistenable “Loutallica” disaster of Lulu; Morbid Angel’s baffling shift towards electro-death on Ilud Divinum Insanus; or Queensryche’s nearly legacy-destroying Operation Mindcrime II. More often, you just get less interesting bombs, like the bland mediocrity of Slayer’s recycled Repentless or Megadeth’s embarrassing Super Collider.

Although 2016 hasn’t had any soul-destroying, all-consuming high profile failures like Lulu (has it?), it’s certainly had enough stumbles. For example: Anthrax’s lackluster For All Kings; Metallica’s deceptively good previews from the mostly dull Hardwired; Gojira’s mixed-bag Magma… Here at Last Rites, we know our time in front of your eyes is limited, so whenever possible, we prefer to promote the good above merely trashing the terrible. But of course, that rosy-eyed view of the world isn’t entirely accurate, so we thought we’d take (the American) Thanksgiving as a chance to do what Americans do on Thanksgiving: share some turkeys.

So sit down, relax, and whatever you do, don’t listen to these.

Enter The Astonishing, a huge concept record and obvious attempt to recapture the glory of Scenes. But in truth it’s just a massively bloated (over two hours!) record centered around some dystopian story that John Petrucci wrote with all of the subtlety of someone that heard a third-hand retelling of The Hunger Games. (Characters named Princess Faythe and Lord Nafaryus almost make me miss Portnoy as lyricist. Almost.)

Despite being impeccably produced and performed (vocalist James Labrie sounds particularly great), the album is an unmitigated disaster. The “story” is almost constantly hamfisted, while the music repeats the same overture/big metal passage/sensitive introspection construction over and over. That not one of these arcs even approaches the quality of such constructs on Scenes or Six Degrees is inconsequential by the end, as getting through The Astonishing even once is a chore beyond chores. This thing makes Nostradamus seem like a work of modesty.

Oh, and they performed the whole stinking thing live. Of course they did.

Back when I was around 13 years old, a good pal and I spent one of those great summers together doing all the gloriously dumb things a couple of kids that age can get into without landing themselves in juvie. We shot bottle rockets at each other on the playground, listened to AC/DC and Scorpions tapes, ghost-rode our bikes down huge hills, etcetera in perpetuity. Then, on the first day of high school, this same pal-o-mine showed up to the joint suddenly and completely transformed. His hair was gelled and piled to the ceiling, he had pleats in his pants, his shoes were pointy and churchy, and he wore an elegant looking shirt unbuttoned just far enough to reveal a couple flashy gold necklaces. Change is necessary and healthy for all living creatures, but sometimes its conclusion arrives from misguided angles, leaving all interested parties completely baffled.

From around 2005 to 2012, Ketzer palled around with the Devil while surrounded by all the gloriously fun things a blackened thrash band can get into while under the roof of Iron Bonehead. The riffs were sharp and cruel, the overall pace was fast enough to run alongside a cheetah (FROM HELL), and everyone had a great time howling at the moon. Then, on January 29th, 2016, this same pal-o-ours showed up to the joint suddenly and completely transformed. Toni Basil’s “Hey Mickey” dominated the rhythms, brittle riffs enfeebled its heart, and all the gothy goodness that Tribulation and In Solitude hitched to their wagon (to great success) basically had the wheels fall off within the first four minutes of the gloomily disappointing Starless. But hey, at least there’s a song nestled in the middle that’s ready to help anyone struggling with counting to ten. Change is necessary and healthy for all living creatures, but sometimes its conclusion arrives from misguided angles, leaving all interested parties completely baffled.

Now two albums in with his new band, which takes the name of the best album from his old band, former Queensryche vocalist Geoff Tate continues further down the modern-rock-cum-halfhearted-progressive-ish-almost-metal path that’s defined everything he’s done for the past fifteen years or so. The second part of a conceptual trilogy of albums, Resurrection obviously furthers the story begun on last year’s The Key, and though it thankfully features no more of Tate’s rapping, it’s every bit as lackluster and confoundingly awful as that first offering. The man can still sing, even if he only rarely ventures into his higher register now, but none of that matters when the songs are this uninspiring. After four brief introductory tracks — yes, four of them — Resurrection fails to catch fire anywhere throughout its overlong run time, a full four songs of which appear to be directly aimed at his old bandmates.

Once, Tate toured with Dickinson and Halford, a dream team of metal gods. Now, he’s “taking on the world” with Blaze Bayley and Ripper Owens… No offense to those two, as they both have their talents, but they’re forever in the shadow of those gods they tried (and failed) to replace. For all its highbrow aspirations, therein lies all that anyone needs to know about an album that proves itself to be yet another half-baked Tate-r.

Oh, and if you thought it couldn’t get much worse, he also plays saxophone…

Posted by Last Rites

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