A Devil’s Dozen – Blue Öyster Cult

Look, there’s no need to call anybody old. Let’s just say that a few of us here at Last Rites have acquired… a nice patina. Maybe you have too, in which case you’re lucky to have been kicking around when the sounds and images of Blue Öyster Cult seemed to fill the air. BÖC’s true origin dates back to 1967, and they’ve never really stopped since, but there was a relatively narrow window from 1975 to 1981 during which the esoteric hard rock generated by this Long Island quintet was just about everywhere. If you grew up then, you’re sure to have sung with radio broadcasts of any number of hit singles of the time. And even if, like several others on the Last Rites crew, you were born too late, you’ve still heard those songs in movie soundtracks and TV commercials and a dang SNL skit, for Pete’s sake. Point is, despite never having reached the heights of true superstardom, the cryptic image Blue Öyster Cult inscribed on the American psyche has spanned generations, genres, and media, and endured for more than five decades.

A lot of rock and roll stories are of the Cinderella type, characterized by a lot of hard work, sure, but also by as much dumb luck. The rise and durability of BÖC certainly owes much to the hard work of the band members, especially a touring ethic second to none and that continues to this day. But what might appear to have been luck really all comes down to one Sandy Pearlman, the band’s manager, producer, and promoter from the outset and the guy who called so many of the right shots on everything from the band’s name to its first record deals and even its original (classic and most commercially successful) lineup. Pearlman’s imprint can be found throughout BÖC’s career in the imagery, lyrics, and concepts, and the involvement of other artists and authors in the development of lyrical ideas and songwriting, including Patti Smith (many times) and Michael Moorcock.

And it’s not just the music. The Blue Öyster Cult concept from pretty early on was steeped in mystery and the occult. Much of that air emanated from Pearlman’s enigmatic Soft Doctrines of Imaginos, a collection of poems that spawned the lyrical concepts of some of BÖCs most enduring work. Add to that the mysterious hook-and-cross logo (inspired by the alchemical symbol for lead, i.e., heavy metal), the simple but lasting impact of an umlaut over the O, and an array of album art reflecting arcane imagery and strange circumstance, and it’s no wonder BÖCs influence can be found in the music, art, and imagery of bands across a wide variety of musical styles from stoner rock and grunge to prog rock and punk, and throughout an astounding array of hard rock and heavy metal bands spanning virtually all the subgenres. One of the best ways to understand a band’s importance is to look at its influence on other bands and you don’t need to look very hard to see the outsized influence of BÖC on so many; essentially, any band that makes use of occult imagery and lyrics in the context of rock and roll based music owes at least a little something to BÖC.

It’s probably true too that the most critical ingredient in the Blue Öyster Cult formula is the most organic, even more than talent or genius or even creativity, and that’s Fun. Above all, BÖC records stand the test of time because they’re weird and eclectic and esoteric in a way that feels inclusive, inviting, as if to say, “Hey! Come on into this song, up onto this stage, into this mystery, and have fun with us!”

Because we at Last Rites love bands that are mysterious and weird and know how to kick ass and have fun, we decided it was finally time to pay tribute to one of the most influential bands in rock and metal with a Devil’s Dozen.

Of course most of these songs come from the albums made by the classic line up of Buck Dharma (lead guitar and vocals), Eric Bloom (guitar, synthesizer, and vocals), Allen Lanier (keyboards and guitar), Joe Bouchard (bass, vocals, keyboards), and Albert Bouchard (drums and vocals), which produced the band’s best known albums. There’s no way to get all of their great songs into a single dozen (even with the Devil’s extra) so some worthy songs didn’t make the cut. Such is the ruthless nature of a best of list for a band whose catalog is as amazing as Blue Öyster Cult’s.

Here is our Devil’s Dozen of Blue Öyster Cult’s best songs. [LONE WATIE]

TRANSMANIACON MC

[Blue Öyster Cult, 1972]

It’s said you never get a second chance to make a first impression, and though Blue Öyster Cult kinda had several chances at it, since they changed names a few times and made records that sat shelved for however long before settling on this name and this sound and this record, it’s definitely true that the first track on the first record should always be a classic, an indication of the true power of the band behind it.

So they got that right, at least. (Just as they got lots of other things right, which is why we’re still celebrating them, some 50 years later.)

From those first stabbing notes, “Transmaniacon MC,” is a rollicking roiling rocker, Buck and Bloom’s guitars and Joe Bouchard’s bass all in constant motion, riffs spinning around one another in an intricate weaving dance, anchored by Albert’s deft rhythms and Allen Lanier’s organ chords. Sandy Pearlman’s semi-obtuse lyrics detail the infamous Altamont Free Concert, where Hell’s Angels were hired as security guards and that went about as well as you’d expect, with everything from a stabbing death to multiple stolen cars to an LSD-induced drowning. Dharma snakes leads around the words, backing up the chorus with a maniacal almost-carnival-calliope descending riff, while the midsection splits the verse structure apart for a quick flash of machine-gun soloing. It’s pain; it’s steel, a plot of knives… It’s “Transmaniacon MC,” and it’s the introductory song to the first record, the first track many people ever heard from Blue Öyster Cult, and it’s a beauty. [ANDREW EDMUNDS]

HOT RAILS TO HELL

[Tyranny and Mutation, 1973]

Perhaps you’re one of those metalheads thinking, “Why should I care about this ancient rock band? They aren’t metal!” Well, this song is precisely the one that should prove to you how silly you’re being right now, and if you keep it up, I’m telling your mother how disappointed we all are in you.

I mean, look at that title.

Hell? That’s been metal since long before Slayer told us it awaits.

Rails? Trains, cocaine, and getting railed in a sundress are all incredibly metal.

Hot? That’s the temperature we like to keep our tempos at and so does Blue Öyster Cult on this here fiery gem of a track. The opening guitar lick has the cocksure swagger of a slowed-down Lemmy; “Born to Be Wild” can suck that riff’s taint. After the second chorus, the guitar thrusts into the spotlight, jamming some weepy blues while the bass holds down the rhythm with a steel-toed boogie. There’s a solid minute in the middle of the song where Albert Bouchard’s rollicking drums start dominating while Donald “Buck Dharma” Roeser fights every note with more jamming fretboard fireworks, making the song feel like it may just fly off those very hot rails.

BÖC told the sophomore slump to piss off with Tyranny and Mutation, and “Hot Rails To Hell” is precisely the song that ensured off it pissed. [SPENCER HOTZ]

VETERAN OF THE PSYCHIC WARS

[Fire of Unknown Origin, 1981]

The militaristic manner in which drummer Albert Bouchard opens “Veteran of the Psychic Wars” offers the perfect counterpoint to the exquisitely moody and atmospheric keyboard play that floats alongside and acts as the fundamental backdrop for so much of Fire of Unknown Origin. This interplay between Bouchard and Allen Lanier is particularly dark on this cut—the grimmest offering of the record, outside of the walloping “Vengeance”—and it gives the song a favorable “soldier reflecting on the weight of warfare, after the fact” impression that’s crucial for the overall gravity of the record. “We’ve been living in the flames / we’ve been eating up our brains / oh, please, don’t let these shakes go on,” our protagonist laments, just as Buck Dharma tears into a beautifully tragic and trippy lead. There’s just something so… palpably heavy metal about it all, without Fire of Unknown Origin coming even close to the actual heaviness of, say, Mob Rules, Welcome to Hell or Killers, all of which landed that same year. BÖC circa 1981 were masters of balance, though, doing what Mirrors failed to do in one respect—delivering a commercial success with a top 40 hit—while also upping the ante on a cryptic atmosphere and a general sense of doominess, which “Veteran of the Psychic Wars” most certainly represents.

On a record that’s loaded with a myriad of moods and emotions, this is the song that most ideally represents that wonderfully dark and supernatural Greg Scott cover art, so it will always be a Cult freak favorite, all the way to the very end. [CAPTAIN]

DOMINANCE AND SUBMISSION

[Secret Treaties, 1974]

BÖC is rightly regarded for being a combination of 70s-heavy, delightfully nerdy, and having an unabashedly adventurous mindset. But holy schnikes, when they decided to bring the swagger they could give even bands like ZZ Top a run for the crown.

“Dominance and Submission,” from Secret Treaties, has more strut than a trio of Gibbs walking down a rough street wearing gold medallions. The track’s opening riff pattern is positively *chef’s kiss* in quality, as fun and catchy as it is mildly intimidating. It’s as if you’re going out for the night in a setting that has at least a little (if not massive) potential for danger, and as the danger odds go up, so too do the thrills. Drummer Albert Bouchard provides lead vocals here and while he’s often doing a Big Rock Thing (“Oh yeeeeah!”), he also isn’t afraid to sound a touch on the edge, a bit deranged (“Can’t you dig the locomotion?”).

The song transitions from pure 70s metal drive to the tiniest touch of blues and some Beatles-y leads all before hitting that killer call-and-response closing section. As the band sings “Dominance” with no variation, Bouchard responds with continually nuttier statements of “Sub-mission…. ssssub-MISSION!” as if he’s fighting with both himself and the rest of the band. It fittingly closes with a white-hot Buck Dharma solo, because by that time our protagonist had likely lost his mind, so the shred takes over. [ZACH DUVALL]

BLACK BLADE

[Cultösaurus Erectus, 1980]

Hey, kids! Who wants some cool, crisp Blue Öyster Cult pop rock? Not a great many of you, apparently, as 1979’s Mirrors—BÖC’s cleanest venture into chipper radio rock—did not chart nearly as high as all interested parties hoped and dreamed. In an effort to placate the angry and mighty gods of Mount Mullet, BÖC tossed Cultösaurus Erectus into the grumbling volcano one year later, and thus the village was finally saved. Hooray! Praised be Martin Birch, a fearless production cavalier with a resumé that included Deep Purple, Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden, who bolted into the fray once again to deliver heavier armor and armaments to the young heroes of the Cult. Is a song like “Black Blade” actually heavy metal? I mean, not really. But for 1980? And for a band that recently released a tissue-thin record like Mirrors? Hell, it might as well be something off Left Hand Path. Sure, it still has radio playability, thanks to that unmistakable BÖC hook, but it also has serious punch, and that midsection is as dark and threatening as the fantastical Moorcock-penned lyrics concerning the voracious blade of the Eternal Champion that accompanies it: “I’m told it’s my duty to fight against the law / that wizardry’s my trade and I was born to wade through gore / I just want to be a lover, not a red-eyed screaming ghoul! / I wish it’d picked another…to be its killing tool.” [CAPTAIN]

JOAN CRAWFORD

[Fire of Unknown Origin, 1981]

I think I was 13 when I first heard “Joan Crawford” and it blew my mind. I don’t remember seeing the video then, nor any of the controversy it created, but the song was provocative enough without all that. It was inspired by the titular actress and, in particular, her adopted daughter Christina’s autobiography, Mommie Dearest, which exposed her mother’s frighteningly abusive behavior. I’d seen the movie based on the book (released in 1981, just after Fire of Unknown Origin, actually), and knew enough to get the song’s allusions to the story and the horror implied. That’s important, because this is a fun rock and roll song at heart but also one that absolutely swells with movielike suspense and dread thanks to Allen Lanier’s piano intro and supporting riffs, especially the trills underneath the chorus, “Joan Crawford has risen from the grave!” The juxtaposition of classical style with rock is expanded to great effect later with the addition of strings in the verses, lending further cinematic air to the song. Meanwhile, Joe Bouchard’s bass bounces along playfully with brother Albert’s drumming to provide a mildly disconcerting contrast. And Eric Bloom’s vocals carry the story in his inimitable way, dynamic and cool as hell as the aviator’d narrator of this very specifically terrifying zombie tale (with Catholic schoolgirl vampires in the video!).

Of course, as fun and good as the song is, it’s the irreverent and frenzied bridge that steals the show with a collection of sounds that appear to have no business in this song or maybe any other (hello, “Future World”), including screeching tires and a car crash, a rotary phone ringing, a vacuum cleaner, a baby’s cry, pins falling at a bowling alley, a rooster’s crow, a cash register tilling, a car engine struggling to turn over, a bugle blowing the call to the post followed by the horse race starting bell, a moaning cow(?), a car horn, a single note sung by a nice opera lady, and an old timey fire or burglar alarm bell ringing. All in less than 20 seconds. How in the heck should that ever work? But it does in ”Joan Crawford” because it’s assembled so perfectly that the sounds presented in this way seem like it’s precisely the way they were meant to be presented. It almost seems as if the sounds tell a story within the story (maybe someone smart has figured that out).

The wackadoodly bridge is appended by Albert channeling the recently risen Joan, calling to Christina, “Mother’s home,” as Bloom responds with Christina’s simple plea, “No, no, no, no!” Buck Dharma finishes things off with a twisty little devil of a solo alongside the last desperate cries of the chorus, ushering in the closing shot before fading to black.

Even though I didn’t know it at the time, BÖC’s sense of mystery and cavalier attitude about making rock and roll set the early stage for my love of progressive music and “Joan Crawford” was a big part of that, a weird and wonderful song that only barely makes sense and never takes its story or itself too seriously because what would be the fun in that? [LONE WATIE]

TAKE ME AWAY

[The Revölution by Night, 1983]

The classic Buck-Bloom-Lanier-Bouchard-Bouchard lineup of BÖC was beginning to fragment in the years following Fire of Unknown Origin, and The Revölution by Night begins what many consider the decline years for the band, in addition to being the first without Albert Bouchard on drums and vocals. But it’s far from the least of these later albums, and as the wickedly good opener “Take Me Away” shows, it also has some serious keepers.

Like most of Fire, the best material on The Revölution by Night finds an ideal balance between 80s sheen and BÖC’s arena metal riff craft, and “Take Me Away” starts with one of those massive, instantly infectious riff patterns—a might twitchy, a lot sassy, and the type of line that they had been writing for over a decade by that point, just adapted for the era. Whether over the metal riffs or Allen Lanier’s prominent keyboards, Eric Bloom’s vocals are captivating, and the way his statement of the song’s title leads right back into the main riff motif is peak BÖC slickness.

There are basically two ways to look at this era of the band. You could be a Debbie Downer and point to the overproduction and Bouchardlessness of “Shooting Shark,” and say that BÖC by 1983 was well past their prime, and you wouldn’t be wrong (still, good song!). But a Positive Patricia would also be correct when listening to tracks like “Take Me Away” and instead choosing to appreciate how much was still left in the BÖC tank at this point, which was plenty. [ZACH DUVALL]

THE SIEGE AND INVESTITURE OF BARON VON FRANKENSTEIN’S CASTLE AT WEISSERIA

[Imaginos, 1988]

In order to understand the impact of a song like “The Siege and Investiture of Baron von Frankenstein’s Castle at Weissera” for an article such as this, one must first grasp the oddness of its existence at all, which is of course tied to the absolute aberration that is Imaginos itself—an album that’s… Well, at best, Blue Öyster Cult mostly by relation. Good fricken gravy, where to even begin to succinctly summarize all this…

As our own snuggly Lone Watie pointed out in the intro, Blue Öyster Cult owes a LOT to original manager / producer / mentor Sandy Pearlman, a gent responsible for guiding the lads from the earliest days, and a fellow whose book of weird fiction / sci-fi poetry, The Soft Doctrines of Imaginos, provided not only the band’s iconic name, but most all of the early mythos and mystery that helped land the hard-nosed New Yorkers on the Rock And Roll map in the first place.

Somewhere along the timeline, however, BÖC decided to separate themselves from Pearlman in an attempt to spread their wings a bit. Long before that fully went down, though—as far back as 1972—Pearlman planted the “Imaginos as a rock opera” concept in the mind of drummer / songwriter Albert Bouchard, who intended to use the material for a trilogy of solo albums that featured other BÖC players filling in some cuddly corners. The ensuing years found Pearlman and Bouchard frequently pushing the Imaginos vision and songs, with the rest of the band becoming more and more disinterested in abetting the seemingly wacky caper.

By 1981, BÖC had largely shifted away from Pearlman (he would be back for 1985’s Club Ninja), and A. Bouchard’s increasingly erratic behavior resulted in his ousting from the band altogether. Strange days, for certain, but days that allowed Pearlman and Bouchard to focus more attention on the Imaginos angle, netting guest players—Aldo Nova (you know “Fantasy”) and Doors’ guitarist Robby Krieger, just to name a couple—to help round out the sessions.

Having already provided significant funding for the project since its earliest inception, Columbia Records kept tabs on the project, which I can only imagine included several conversations akin to: “How in the hell is this still a thing we’re throwing money at?”

Unsurprisingly, the label shelved the project in ’84, dooming every lick of work to a restless grave. Then, following the utter collapse and disbandment of BÖC after poor sales from Club Ninja (1985-‘86), Pearlman renegotiated a deal with Columbia Records to push Imaginos as one last Blue Öyster Cult album, and a modest stipend was allotted to see the project to the end. Pearlman got the original tapes from Albert Bouchard and put a modern sheen to it, he convinced Eric Bloom and Buck Dharma to throw down some additional work, and he persuaded a handful of new guests to give things a little added punch—shredder Joe Satriani and Blind Illusion’s Marc Biedermann (say whut) being the most relevant to our metal interests.

The results??? Yeah, it didn’t make a very big splash, especially considering the amount of time and effort that went into the construction of this House of Usher. But is the album the absolute fucknado disaster it has every right to be? Oddly, no. Sure, it’s flawed and strange and likely wouldn’t sell 1000 copies if it were reissued today, but it’s an engrossing snapshot of a notably wild ride that does absolutely deserve its day in the sun, and there are moments of brightness and a surprising amount of heaviness that really make the effort seem worthwhile. For its part, “The Siege and Investiture of Baron von Frankenstein’s Castle at Weissera” stands out amongst the rest because it sounds like some sort of frenzied collision between the Riverbottom Nightmare Band, Hammers of Misfortune and Jørn, plus it features a sizzling lead from ol’ Satch, who financed the release of Surfing with the Alien with his share of the Imaginos proceeds. So, yeah, here is “The Siege and Investiture…,” drilled to the bumper of 12 other extremely worthy BÖC jams and really not sounding that out of place amidst all the excellence.

And as a parting motion, I would certainly recommend a dive into the full story behind Imaginos, all of which is hammered down via the album’s lengthy wikipedia page. [CAPTAIN]

CITIES ON FLAME WITH ROCK AND ROLL

[Blue Öyster Cult, 1972]

BÖC has often been called “the American Black Sabbath,” and though there are some definite similarities, that description has always felt pretty wickedly off-base to me, with a few notable exceptions, one of which is this dark and heavy stomper from the self-titled debut. The primary riff harks directly back to Sabbath’s “The Wizard,” albeit with exactly one fewer harmonica, and in true BÖC fashion, it’s twisted up and around into something unique and bizarre, balanced out with a swinging boogie chorus that could’ve been from one of Status Quo’s harder-edged moments. Flourishes of psychedelia dance around proto-metal mastery, as Albert Bouchard sings of the world-shattering, city-burning, ear-(and eye-)melting power of ten thousand guitars, while Buck’s fretboard-frying fingers peel in and out of that riff, slinging sinewy solos around the stomping groove, settling into a swinging drive alongside Lanier’s majestic Hammond organ before the whole thing wraps up with one last three-note smash.

Blue Öyster Cult weren’t always as heavy as Sabbath, nor as dark (and were usually headier, smarter, and always weirder), but when they were heavy and dark, they were Heavy. And they were Dark. “Cities On Flame With Rock And Roll” is a prime example of some of the Öyster Cult’s blackest blue, and an early classic of what would one day be called “heavy metal.” [ANDREW EDMUNDS]

(DON’T FEAR) THE REAPER

[Agents of Fortune, 1976]

In our previous celebration of the 40th anniversary of Rush’s glorious Moving Pictures, I discussed that my introduction to “Tom Sawyer” was through the game Rock Band. I also mentioned that while many people may feel the song is overplayed, it remains an absolute touchstone of their career and there can be no denying its greatness. I can say precisely the same things about Agent of Fortune’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.”

Despite the song being nearly 50 years old and receiving seemingly-constant radio play since its release, “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” still manages to appear in pop culture regularly enough to hook new audiences. And do you know why? Because it’s a really damn good song, simple as that.

The main riff, somber vocals, and ethereal guitar wafting in and out in the background give everything a weird mix of feeling like you’re at the beach, but you know it’s haunted. Somehow, buried in the mix, there’s a cowbell constantly banging away, but it never takes away from the tone, becomes annoying or even feels cheery. The chorus is easy for the crowd to sing along to and pits la-la-las against brief stints of weeping guitar. The middle portion of the song gets downright intimidating as it feels like aliens have just abducted the listener from that haunted beach; then, with a wailing note, your mind is erased and your plopped back down to Earth for more of that chill ominous tune.

Every element of the song feels incongruent with what overlays it, yet it all manages to gel in a way that no song should be able to. It’s upbeat and sad. It’s light on the surface but incredibly heavy the more you listen to it. “Reaper” is one of Blue Öyster Cult’s most enigmatic songs and deserves every one of the billions of plays it has gotten since 1976. [SPENCER HOTZ]

VENGEANCE (THE PACT)

[Fire of Unknown Origin, 1981]

This mid-album stunner from BÖC’s finest album is one of those masterclasses in mood, tone, and seemingly effortless songwriting that this band tossed out with ruthless regularity. Its shifts encapsulate the huge stylistic range within which BÖC could operate, opening with a delicate synth intro that feels like fluttering flutes before dropping a rubber hammer with that elastically heavy main riff. “Vengeance” is Joe Bouchard’s only lead vocal tune on Fire, and with slightly twitchy understatement he swirls the lyrics of flight and battle in a way vaguely reminiscent of Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” while his bass digs particularly deep in the groove. The staccato oohs-and-aahs on the backing vocals lay a bed of eerie counterpart, and when Buck Dharma dips out for a solo, it’s one of his sparsest, most elliptically bluesy.

But then, with a rather stunningly ballsy transition that speeds up the tempo, the band rockets into a galloping sprint. I’m as guilty of this as anyone, but there’s a pretty weak-sauce tendency among metal fans to try and find the metal-ish bits of not-quite-metal songs. Even so, it is undeniable that the, ahem, metallic fire BÖC brings to this midsong digression lands them essentially in the still-coalescing terrain of NWOBHM. With top-notch tunes like “Vengeance,” you might find yourself asking: were they the most mystical face of blue-collar rock, or perhaps the most down in the gutter, street-brawlin’-est wizards? Good grief, you BÖChead. It’s an amazing song from an amazing album, and that ought to be good enough for us all. [DAN OBSTKRIEG]

FLAMING TELEPATHS

[Secret Treaties, 1974]

Come on. There was only one way we could have closed out this article, and that was with the two songs that make up the greatest album finale in BÖC’s career. When analyzed as a whole, Secret Treaties is a rather wild album full of diverse sounds ranging from playful proto metal and arena-ready tracks to material that flirts with prog rock. It all forms a rather satisfying arc, but it’s impossible to imagine that coming through if the two-part finale was not so magical. So yes, this was the only way we could have possibly finished this article.

The first of these finale tracks, “Flaming Telepaths,” begins in a rather unassuming manner with a simple lead guitar melody and straightforward rhythms in both the drums and piano, but without the listener even realizing it soon grows to something somewhat tense, very emotionally-driven, and ultimately quite beautiful. There’s a theatrical drama and subtle bombast to the song that is only achieved due to the performances of a positively magnetic Eric Bloom on vocals and a band in peak form.

For the record, I have very little idea what Sandy Pearlman’s lyrics are actually about here, but when analyzed in a silo they create a setting that is both deeply regretful (“Well I’ve opened up my veins too many times / And the poison’s in my heart and in my mind”) and pointing to retribution (“Is it any wonder that my joke’s an iron / And the joke’s on you”). Through all the mystery, Bloom displays nuance and power. Just his pronunciation of “fire” in the chorus line “Is it any wonder that my mind’s on fire?” feels both dismissive and melancholic, and he deftly follows (and enhances) the punch and rhythm of the backing music throughout.

It’s one of his best performances, but he arguably tops himself on the very next song. As stated, “Flaming Telepaths” is really just the first part of a perfect album finale, so if you have only ever heard the second part alone on a live album or potentially because a pretty famous band covered it, you owe it to yourself to hear both songs together as part of this wondrous record. As for that other song… [ZACH DUVALL]

ASTRONOMY

[Secret Treaties, 1974]

There’s a certain type of Blue Öyster Cult fanatic that shows up when it comes time to track down all of the band’s live performances and bootlegs, especially during its peak performance era, which was primarily during the 70s and lasted through the release of Fire of Unknown Origin. It is not that the album versions of each song commonly found on a BÖC setlist are incomplete or suboptimal, but rather that experiencing every iteration and subtle difference each recording of a track offers further sheds light on the emotional message the band intended to convey. I am one such fanatic. And if there was ever a perfect song to exemplify the feeling of enlightenment that occurs when a new iteration is discovered, it is “Astronomy.”

Now, I am going to tell you about the three necessary elements that make this song — in all of its forms — absolutely perfect. When I say perfect, I’m not merely talking about the musical composition. I’m talking about the daunting task of one solitary song being the lodestone on which every other Blue Öyster Cult achievement rests. The proverbial nutshell encapsulating the furnaces that burn slow in each and every Blue Öyster Cult fanatic’s heart.

First, the lore. No, not just Astronomy’s lyrical lore, which we’ll get to in a minute, but let’s start with the mysticism surrounding the band in general. From the logo appearing throughout each of the band’s album covers, to the way Eric Bloom wore his watch facing inwards (a man who when once was asked what Blue Oyster Cult means to him, gave only “higher mathematics” as a response). The lasers the band used live to further the storytelling were groundbreaking for the time. Clearly, The cult is more than just a band, and it doesn’t do any good to attempt to explain its magic, because explaining magic diminishes the very thing we feel when magic hits us. In the case of Astronomy, a song that was written by the mastermind of the band’s image Sandy Pearlman, the lore factor is turned up to eleven. Take, for example, that the lyrics were altered to match the original poem when it was recorded a second time on Imaginos (the second of what would be three separate studio recordings). Are two doors locked, or four? Which version of the song will open the Ninth Gate? Now, I’ve not managed to locate any sort of life-altering wisdom within the confines of Astronomy, but I think it’s safe to say what gives the song so much power and mystique is how much it clearly meant to the band that wrote and played it. For almost fifty years now, Blue Öyster Cult doesn’t merely stumble onto stage, perform the identical album versions of the songs, and punch out their time card at the end of the day. Sure, they’ve earned the right to do so, but even though the piss-and-vinegar years are long in the rearview, the band treats this song like a living, breathing, and ever expanding organism whenever it gets played live. Each performance has the same energy, but different exexution. That energy behind the song’s lore is the first ingredient that gives it power.

Next up, the actual musical components of the song. If you’ve never seen Bloom perform Astronomy life, just know he’s telling a story with layers and layers of meaning. It doesn’t matter if any of us ever decipher its messages. What matters is that he knows he’s the storyteller, and he believes that Desdinova’s story is one hundred percent real. From his capes, to his laser pointers, Bloom is a perfect captain for this voyage. Allen Lanier definitely shows off less on the keys here when compared to Fire of Unknown Origin, but he and Joe Bouchard build perfect, rhythmic suspense between guitar, bass, and keys, while Albert Bouchard follows suit with subtle fills and quiet intensity. The beauty of the lot of them holding back a bit on this track compared to some others is that it sets the stage perfectly for the third element that makes this song — and so many others — so special. Lanier, Bloom, and the Bouchards know exactly when to let loose, and when to refrain. That power of control is exactly what unlocks the song’s third and final element.

The secret weapon. Buck Dharma himself. Perhaps uncoincidentally, the only member who continued to use the occult name given to him as a pseudonym throughout his entire career. To put it simply, Dharma’s style of playing makes one feel like the man came out of some metaphysical time capsule sent here to teach the human race something. The band threw the poor guy some sweaty costume as he emerged and told him to just get up on stage and put his innermost feelings directly onto his guitar strings. Possessing the mind of Mozart and the heart of Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Dharma doesn’t just command his instrument, he uses it to tear back the firmament and transmit layers upon layers of emotion out of the fucking stratosphere with it.

Let’s sidestep for a moment. You know that level of trust you have when you see someone wearing merchandise representing an album that means a lot to you emotionally? Sure, it’s a complex and ever evolving world, but there’s a layer of protection that melts away when you mention something to that person, yes? As if at least a part of them thinks or feels similarly enough to you that you feel like you’d get along. This is the type of communication that can’t really be put into words, because it’s all in the NOTES. A kinship may exist when we discuss art we love, but it comes to fullest fruition when we get to experience these notes together, because the notes are so much more powerful than words. Human language is an imperfect method of communication, because, well, it was created by people who are imperfect. Music, on the other hand, much like mathematics, is a universal language we’ve merely begun to figure out how to grasp. We harness it through different mediums. That is all. It’s too perfect to describe using a method as emotionally incomplete as human language, and the more powerful its message, the more likely we are to trust others we know have felt the same thing.

Back to some more astronomical shit. Ever wonder if we’re being watched by a much more intelligent life force? Like a child watching squirrels fighting over a nut under a tree, the extraterrestrials must know that nothing is to gain by contacting us now. We’re still killing, maiming, raping, and taking advantage of each other for… well… some really stupid reasons. But would that we could build some sound cannon the size of the Hubble telescope and blast every perfect note of Astronomy to the farthest reaching corners of the universe as a plea for someone to give us a road map to a better way. Because if there is some higher intelligence out there waiting for a sign the human race is ready, my guess is they have as firm a grasp on whatever language Blue Öyster Cult spoke when they first wrote Astronomy, and every single time they played it since. Maybe then we’d be the stranger on the train wearing the Secret Treaties t-shirt, and a lone and compassionate space traveler would recognize it, and perhaps let its guard down so that we may begin to learn its secrets. [KONRAD KANTOR]