If we go by the logic that a classic album is the musical equivalent of a sports championship – and by god we’re going by that logic – then you can make a point that it’s also extremely difficult winning a musical championship. Like in sports, a lot of things have to align: band personnel, stylistic vision, performances, chemistry, and well, health doesn’t hurt (rock history is loaded with stories of key band members checking out of recording sessions due to addiction or burnout or both). Sometimes a band taps into this magic immediately, and sometimes it takes several years and albums. The latter was the case for Faith No More.

In terms of band personnel, Faith No More only had their championship roster together for two albums. That’s it. This is not to take away from the earlier years, as the lineup of drummer Mike Bordin, bassist Billy Gould, guitarist Jim Martin, keyboardist Roddy Bottum, and vocalist Chuck Mosley put out some great funk metal, particularly on Introduce Yourself, but it wasn’t until Mosley was replaced with Mike Patton that the band would begin to realize their full potential as one of the weirder units in all of popular rockdom.

Propelled by the rap metal hit “Epic,” The Real Thing went platinum in the U.S. Pretty good for a bunch of guys that on paper sometimes read like they’re all playing for different bands. Bottum played airy, new wave-y synths and soft piano parts; Gould slapped his way into pure funk terrain; Martin played thrash riffs as if he grew up around key members of the scene (he did); and Bordin glued it all together with a performance as funky as it was hammering. Patton, of course, was the type of spitfire madman that was rarely heard on such a hit record, possessing stylistic range that fit whatever the band was doing at the time, all the while demanding the spotlight.

The Real Thing remains Faith No More’s best-selling album. “Epic” is a big reason why, but the whole of the record absolutely rules, and it would be a sterling “best record” for many a great rock band. And yet – and yet – few argue that it’s their artistic peak. It was like that first season under a new coach when almost everything clicks but the ultimate goal isn’t quite reached–Patton himself only joined the band during its recording, so he was not as involved in the songwriting process as he would be later on. Still, nearly everything aligned, but in terms of vision and songwriting, there was more to achieve, and that “more” was Angel Dust.

Angel Dust is without a doubt one of the strangest and most audacious records to ever be a mainstream hit, but Faith No More was so locked into each other as a unit, so at the top of their game in terms of performers and songwriters, and so ballsy that every last second is magical. As strange as The Real Thing is for a platinum-selling album, it still largely saw Faith No More working within a certain stylistic pocket. Sure, some moments are a touch progressive, others get loungy, and sometimes the thrash really comes through, but for the most part it rarely veers too far from a stylistic mean. Angel Dust, on the other hand, is completely all over the place, and is all the better for it.

The album’s foundation is that of a darker, more atmospheric take on The Real Thing. Yes, many of the building blocks are still the same – the airy keys, punchy drumming, and thrashy riffs – but there’s so much more space to it that it seems to exist in a different realm. Patton had also evolved a ton as a vocalist in just a few years, eschewing much of his more nasal style in favor of a larger set of tools ranging from a deeper croon to singing that seems to soar within the greater space created by his bandmates. He was also much more involved in the songwriting process, which is apparent throughout as his melodies often seem to lead songs, as opposed to just fitting in with whatever else was already there as on The Real Thing.

Opener “Land of Sunshine” is smartly not one of the more outlandish songs on Angel Dust – it’s largely based on the foundation of slap bass, snare-heavy drumming, and lightly thrashy guitars – but it’s teeming with signs of Faith No More’s evolution nonetheless. As stated, there’s far more space here, Bottum’s keys sometimes take more of the spotlight (a crucial descending line is particularly sweet, as is Gould’s answer), and Patton instantly shows how far his melodic sense had grown. There’s also a heightened sense of theatricality, as shown in the dramatic finish.

Much of the album similarly utilizes the established Faith No More formula while providing slight – but crucially different – twists. “Caffiene” comes at the listener and is immediately thrasher, more intense, and darker than the opener, while Patton ranges from maniacal screams to truly soulful singing. Plus, there’s something rather mysterious about it, a vibe Faith No More had not yet tapped into on previous albums. The hooky and expansive “Smaller and Smaller” and equal parts aggressive and lighthearted “Everything’s Ruined” similarly carry some of that mystery to their moods, often due to Patton’s melodies and the space in the production. Both tracks also showed Martin’s knack for narrative playing, with an expressive lead in the former and tasty solo in the latter. “Crack Hitler” also twists the main formula by pushing both the bubbly funk (most slap bass on the album) and overall drama.

Then there’s “Kindergarten,” an expression of youthful innocence that is perfectly matched by escapist music that involves the whole band. From Patton’s lyrics about short drinking fountains to Martin’s looser playing to Gould’s expressive bass work, everything here is particularly tasty. Like basically all of the album’s songs, try not to sing along to that chorus. While I don’t have empirical evidence to back this up, this just has to be the best song ever about being perpetually stuck in kindergarten.

But Faith No More being Faith No More, and this album being what it is, the comparatively “ordinary” tracks (which are by no means ordinary) only tell part of the story. You also have the sillier songs like the loungy and humorous “RV” and bonkers “Be Aggressive,” but this being Faith No More, they weave that silliness into some pretty unforgettable songs. “Be Aggressive,” in particular, is rather impossible to resist with its killer main organ theme, cheerleaders in the chorus, and general sense of throwing caution to the wind. Legend has it that Roddy Bottum (who is gay) wrote lyrics about giving a blowjob so that Mike Patton (who is straight) would be embarrassed to sing them. As if Mike Patton gets embarrassed about anything–it became an instant live staple. The result was yet one more kickass Faith No More song, and one of many that shows just how fearless they were at this time, which naturally happened to also be their artistic peak.

Beyond the more humorous songs there are those that really stretch the album’s dynamics, including those that flirt with extreme metal and those that carry pure pop sensibility. On the more intense side are songs like the hammeringly heavy “Malpractice” and the totally insane “Jizzlobber.” The former combines pounding riffs, demented keys, and Patton’s screams, only pausing the onslaught for a passage of bells and soft singing, which oddly works because this is Faith No More, after all. The latter carries massive, foreboding riffs, Patton’s desperate, manic vocals, and a general sense of madness to become the album’s most obvious mosh song, not to mention the closest Faith No More ever got to extreme metal. That it fades into nothing but organ, perfectly leading into the closing cover of the Midnight Cowboy theme, takes nothing from this demented aura. If anything it only highlights the madness with a touch of majesty.

On the pop sensibility side are the album’s two lead singles: “Midlife Crisis” and “A Small Victory.” We’ll start with the latter first, which is full of uplifting melodies and bouncy rhythms, making it a perfect way to follow up the audacious “Be Aggressive.” The former, well… For my money, “Midlife Crisis” isn’t just Faith No More’s finest single moment, it’s one of the greatest songs in rock and roll history. From Bordin’s bouncy rhythms and the hip hop-tinged verses to the preposterously infectious chorus and a slightly darker bridge, everything about it is impeccable. More than that, however, is how utterly refreshing it feels. I simply don’t know how to adequately describe what makes it so special, except that it’ll put a particular pep in your step that is rare in rock. It’s perfect, yes, it’s true (and now it’s in your head).

Another masterful aspect of Angel Dust is its sequencing. Everything feels perfectly in place, and the band uses contrast to great effect throughout. Already mentioned is the brilliance of following up the wackiness of “Be Aggressive” with “A Small Victory” (and the latter with the heightened intensity and funk of “Crack Hitler”) but also key is in how the sexual explicitness and bonkers music of “Be Aggressive” follows up the innocence and introspective vibes of “Kindergarten.” The opening duo of “Land of Sunshine” and “Caffeine” are wicked good in their own right, but they also feel like lead-ins to the alluring charm of “Midlife Crisis,” which is in turn contrasted by the softer and humorous “RV.” And yes, we also already mentioned that closing cover of the Midnight Cowboy theme, but it’s really fascinating how well it reflects not just on the finish of “Jizzlobber,” but the album as a whole.

Not one single song feels out of place or out of order, a feat that is all the more impressive in light of the album’s breadth of styles and moods. The sequencing is yet one more thing that absolutely went right for the album, alongside the contrasting but complementary performances, the impeccable songwriting, and all the tiny details that keep you coming back again and again.

Angel Dust is the sound of a band absolutely going for it on all levels and succeeding, and yet, it almost wasn’t. Jim Martin was unhappy with the change of direction and was reportedly distant during the album’s sessions (his father had also recently passed, likely adding to his detachment). Internal conflicts would lead to him leaving the band (or being fired, depending on who you ask) after the album’s tour, and Faith No More would never quite be the same again. They’ve released three more albums post-Martin, all of which are good, but none capture that insane magic that the band had during their two-album run with both Patton and Martin, and none contain that wonderfully free and unfettered feel of Angel Dust.

It just shows how tenuous the grasp can be on that perfect formula, and how fleeting these magical moments are in music and art. A slightly worse vibe from Martin, and he might have left the band during the album’s sessions, but thankfully he remained to contribute to an album that was simply lightning-in-a-bottle. Even with his supposed detachment, Martin delivered a killer performance throughout the record, matched by the killer performances of his bandmates. From talent and tension emerged the greatness of this record; pressure created a gem. And perhaps it was fitting that he didn’t quite agree with the evolution of Angel Dust; Faith No More was, of course, a band constantly at odds with itself, with everyone bringing their own style to the table.

Angel Dust is the ultimate expression of this constant contrast. It’s an explosion of brilliance and fearlessness that is almost never heard in mainstream rock, one that had to befuddle record execs as much as it continues to befuddle fans. It’s expansive and imaginative, dorky and slick, funky and punchy, progressive and regressive, and still, after all these years, impossibly cool to the right sets of ears.

If you’ve managed to never hear it over the past 30-plus years, enjoy–you’ll probably be a little confused while having a boatload of fun. If you have heard it but haven’t spun it in years, give it a revisit and rediscover its genius all over again. Peak Faith No More lasted for two incredible albums, but Angel Dust is the one that solidified them as champions.

The post Diamonds & Rust: Faith No More – Angel Dust appeared first on Last Rites.

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Just… Because… We’re old… And gray… Doesn’t… Mean… We’ll go… Away…

Just. Because. We’re old. And gray. Doesn’t. Mean. We’ll go. Away.

JUST BECAUSE WE’RE OLD AND GRAY, DOESN’T MEAN WE’LL GO AWAY

I’m certain Sir James Plotkin and His Lordship Alan Dubin did not intend to offer up such a relatable album for folks like me when they released the crumbling debut from Old Lady Drivers back in 1988, but as an up-and-coming starting forward for The Olds myself, I can say that I’ve found a fresh perspective on the record as I drift ever closer to actually becoming the full codger version of “Total Hag,” or an actual “Supermarket Monstrosity.” This prospect remains funny to me, but the amusement is… Steeped in more insight. Yes, thankfully I’m still a fair distance away from scaring / scarring children just by dragging myself across the cereal aisle, but there’s a newfound awareness of kismet afoot. Main point: Is it funny getting older? Yes, in a number of unexpected ways it is, but it’s funny in a way that can only be fully understood by those fated to endure it.

How about fun? Is it fun getting older? No, not fucking really, because “with age comes wisdom” is only part of the equation, Oscar Wilde, you dapper GD shitpoet. Sure, with age comes wisdom, but in tow is dragged all manner of other special treasures: Exhaustion, pain (metaphysical and literal), doomed distress and an unavoidable sense of decline, all of which is governable, but by hell does it all ever lurk menacingly around so many corners.

So, what the bonk does this have to do with Deadform and their debut, Entrenched In Hell? Sisters and brothers and cousins and aunties and uncs of all that’s loud and proud, the line between insult and celebration when it comes to talking about elders in extreme music is finer than a gnat’s eyelash, and I’m really not sure I’m doing any damned favors by going about it this way. On the other hand, 1) I sometimes can’t help but relate to albums on a very personal level, and 2) I can’t argue with you right now because I spent 4 hours in a stadium comfortably sitting in the sun and watching a playoff baseball game while drinking beer, so I am absolutely exhausted. [elder salute]

Photo by: Photo booth at Eli’s Mile High Club / Oakland, CA

Let’s begin with this: Deadform is a band made up of three venerated veterans of the underground punk, metal, crust and sludge realm, and instead of opting for the route so many other seasoned vets in this sphere waltz down these days—desperately gripping a valued name and infusing fresh blood via a couple hired young guns—they have decided to convene under a new banner with just themselves to draw inspiration from their previous primary endeavors: Dystopia, Stormcrow and Laudanum. The result? Surprise! A sludgy form of crusty metal that—and this next point requires doublay emphasis—does not sound like it’s made by tired old men, but it absolutely does throw double middle fingers to most anything that might be considered ‘modern’ for our genre today. For fuck’s sake, there’s a song that focuses on the Heaven’s Gate cult here. Hey, all time favorite cult fuckedness, for sure, and still relevant in the way that it continues to underscore the dangers of mass brainwashing, but not exactly the cult that gets the most headlines in the year of our Lard, Twenty Twenty Four. So, yes, there’s a unique sense of ‘through an old-hand’s eyes’ as the record relates to themes of war, plague and any number of other time-honored miseries, but it’s a comfortable distance from the more fashionable and weirdly precise approach many modern punk-plated metal bands opt for today.

Again, the band’s crux is built on a near lifetime spent hurling thick noise in oily underground clubs in front of modest, highly perspired crowds, and that comes through inside these very tidy 30 minutes, as every song has that erupting ‘live in the studio’ feel where punchy drums, grëëëaaazy bass and a satisfyingly turbulent and (perhaps surprisingly) chunky guitar regularly get punctured by craggy, cantankerous barking. It’s a fairly straightforward affair, too, but Deadform does a great job of dressing the corners with an extension of Laudanum’s regular use of noise / industrial elements that lend a dark and distinct Killing Joke / Godfleshy feel to the album’s underbelly. There’s no fucking slick studio trickery, either, which makes it clear that this is the sort of material that would transfer particularly well to the stage, though you’d probably have to live pretty close to the West Coast to ever hope to experience it. (Who the fuck over 40 wants to sleep in a van while traveling 2500 miles to play for drink tickets—crazy peoples, that’s whomst. Bless their hearts.) I will say, however, that it might be worth the journey to the lawless streets of Oakland just to have your head clubbed to powder by the riff that hits halfway through “The Exit”; it’s the greasiest, durtiest, hurliest riff of 2024, without a hitch, and that ain’t bad for a hunk of grizzled vets responsible for a near endless supply of crumbling riffs over the last three decades or so.

Yes, I agree that an argument can be made (and easily won) for firing me directly into a brick wall from a cannon for even dragging age into the equation for this write-up, and the band would probably fucking hate me for doing so. It’s a matter I can’t help but think about, though, given the fact that I continue to gracefully shamble into the role of ‘guy who shows up to the dirty heavy metal show and immediately inspires half the crowd to wonder if I’m there to complain about the noise’. Amazingly enough, however, I am not actually trying to say a record like Entrenched In Hell is made by grumpy old punks solely for grumpy old punks, and that anyone outside of that restriction will find it hard to connect with the record. To be totally honest, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that these dudes made this album 100% for themselves. You know… To vent. To have fun venting their anger in a loud, grimy, notably un-melodic manner. Just because we hit 45 or 50 doesn’t mean we suddenly see ourselves as Wilford Brimley in Cocoon, for fuck’s sake. We’re still angry, we still need outlets for that anger, and we’re really not the sorts that do so by standing around and yelling at people who shoot off fireworks after 10pm. We wanna fucking rage.

Just because our rage has aged, doesn’t mean it’s less deranged.

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TWO WAYS TO PLAY:

Photo by: The photo booth at Eli’s Mile High Club / Oakland, CA

The post Deadform – Entrenched In Hell Review appeared first on Last Rites.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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

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

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)

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

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

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]

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There are no limits, you are only limited by however far you want to be limited.
–Chuck Schuldiner

Only death is real.
–Thomas Gabriel Fischer

Mortality casts its shadow over everything we do and experience. It may not always be at the forefront, but submerged somewhere within the cavernous lake of the subconscious the knowledge of our own eventual demise lurks. It bides its time like the monstrous kraken–we are all aware of its presence, even if it only breaks free of its bonds and ravishes the conscious thought every so often. Yet as this beast lies in wait, its ripples spread across the surface, eventually touching every shore of our existence. It cannot be escaped through any deliberate means; quite the contrary thanks to the paradox of ironic process theory. No matter how much we try to distract ourselves from this ominous creature, it broods patiently. It’s a monster that cannot be defeated until it is fully accepted, only then can it be truly transcended.

Follow the trajectory of Death. Sure, you could rightly argue that there were a few “death metal” bands before, but much as we as humans at an early age fail to have a complete understanding of our own mortality, the full comprehension was, well, lacking. Scream Bloody Gore was the moment it really became a fully recognized idea. A triarchy of revelations: “Oh, this is death!” or “Oh, this is death!” or “Oh, this is Death!” Almost as soon as the beast was realized, Chuck was trying to escape it, to transcend its grasp while still being burdened with the knowledge of its existence and the power it held over his music. While in part due to his status of as a trailblazer of the death metal style (and thus shaping how the genre was to be perceived), everything he touched still felt tied, both thematically and stylistically, to death. As much as he tried to separate himself from death metal in the latter years, its presence is still felt in the music like an acknowledgment of the inevitable. He stared his own creation in the face, and by incorporating its undeniable presence, transcended it.

Santiago, Chile’s Inanna appear to come from a similar school of thought. The brainchild of Diego Ilabaca, Inanna (first formed in 2000) was initially a youthful idea meant to merge his favorites of Morbid Angel’s Altars Of Madness and Sepultura’s Morbid Visions with the progressive ideas of his 1970s favorites. Over the course of twenty-two years and now three full-length albums, Inanna have been experimenting and tweaking their sound, carving their own path towards transcendence of death, taking their time to acquire the proper talent to bring Ilabaca’s twisted dream to life.

A very young Inanna, circa 2002.
Photo credit: Unknown

Built around a tech-thrash backbone, their 2008 debut, Converging Ages was an impressive display of wizardry, both in the songwriting and technicality departments. 2012’s Transfigured In A Thousand Delusions veered even further into progressive territories, with Atheist-styled punishing technicality coupled with ethereal, mind-warping melodic passages more in the vein of Cynic. Their latest work, Void Of Unending Depths, feels like the heaviest, yet most balanced of the three, diving deeper into cavernous lake of death while simultaneously reaching out to see what lies beyond.

The two opening excursions feel like a prelude to the album as a whole, especially as the concluding lines, “Innumerable aeons I can see now, foul visions which no cult has attained!” echo out past the ending of the instrumentation. It’s the call of revelation, and the power within stews as “Far Away In Other Spheres” begins its its doomed introduction. The guitar darts noisily about like unfettered, inhuman energy. Even when the blasts come in, the song feels weighted with burdens of dark, esoteric knowledge. The simmer becomes a boil–then releases its heavy restraints as the bass breaks free of the waters that would drown it. A moment of peace and reprieve before the most sinister part of the song counteracts it, reshackling the melody and plunging it back into the torrid waters. The brilliance comes in the final moments of the song, when the melodies are revisited within the guitar solo–that key moment between the perceptions of death.

Diego Ilabaca shredding his way to a higher consciousness.
Photo credit: Fabiola Correa

“Underdimensional” calms things down a bit at its introduction, letting the bass and drums explore the terrain with a jazzy drift through the aqueous, reverberated soundscapes of the guitar. Comparisons could be made to Blood Incantation (there’s something to the weightless aspect here), especially when the full crunch of distortion breaks through in an abrupt change into an ominous, distorted second intro. The song structure is intuitively logical, even when it takes sharp curves on a dime. There’s a subtle through line that carries the material from one idea to the next, regardless of the attack. Inanna have this unholy sense of balance, giving them the ability to strike from all sorts of directions–from deconstructed, atonal breaks to melodic, ripping thrash passages. The tortured vocals vary just enough between those lower, damp growls and a bit of the higher, drier shrieks, adding to the discomforting feel of horrific death. That aqueous theme is never too far out of reach, getting a highlight on the softer–yet still discomforting–bridge of the song that calls back to the first introduction. That lurking beast edges closer as the music crescendos. A driving beat brings in more of the riffwork that nods to The Chasm before the beat doubles down and the solo is unleashed. Frantic, yet melodic, it tears through with some serious shredding before the meat of the song is again tossed into the grinder. It’s a ten-minute epic that plays out to an appropriately dramatic conclusion–Wow, just…wow.

Guitarist-turned-drummer Carlos Fuentes providing the battery to the cosmic engine of Inanna
Photo credit: Fabiola Correa

As vast and widespread as the album reaches, it never stretches too far apart from the sinking darkness that gives it its character. The shadow of deathly terror ties the melodic overtones and intuitive songwriting together make Inanna quite the chaperones for journeying across the tumultuous waters of the proverbial Styx. Their work is challenging, but accessible, and the second single from the album, “The Key To Alpha Centauri,” illustrates this perfectly. The balance between technical prowess and emotive playing walks a tightrope over increasingly tumultuous waters. The riffs tell a story, albeit one burdened with violent tragedy and consuming darkness. The way the band have a knack for making each wave peak a little higher as the song progresses is on full display, yet even the slower, labored, doom passages are littered with their own violent, cresting breaks in the growing tsunami. In contrast to the aggressive precision playing of the band, the simple, reverberated leads at the song’s conclusion mark a chilling humanity to the piece.

The journey through the Void continues with “Mind Surgery,” a whippy little number that kicks off with angular rhythmic structures. Even these discordant tech-death bits fit into Inanna’s smooth delivery. As proven by bands such as Morbid Angel or even Chile’s own Atomic Aggressor, even a jigsaw puzzle cut by an intoxicated madman can be reconstructed as long as all the pieces are there, and Inana continuously finds fresh ways of putting them together. It’s all glued by the ironclad drumming of Carlos Fuentes, who served as the band’s second guitarist until 2017. Perhaps it’s his multi-faceted perspective on the band’s writing style, but regardless he finds a way to hit every rhythm, fill, crash, chime, and roll exactly as the music demands.

Cabo de Hornos.
Photo credit: Grazia Bertano

If left off here, Void Of Unending Depths would be a more-than-formidable forty-four minute progressive death album. It could have been written to fit neatly on a single 12″ LP–but limitations are not something Inanna are considering. “Cabo de Hornos,” the album’s near fourteen-minute long opus of a closer is absolutely necessary. That beast that Inanna have tackled with throughout the course of the album, that ever-looming knowledge of demise is shed for a for a higher understanding. Too much should not be revealed but allowed to be experienced on its own terms. Needless to say, the song’s name, which derives from Cabo de Hornos (an area just south of the Tierra del Fuego /Land of Fire in the southernmost region of Chile) yields clues about the song’s subject of a journey to the literal end of the world. The music yields justice in its subject matter, as it’s a force of nature that finds solstice in the dichotomy of violence and beauty. It’s dark, it’s brutal, it’s heavy, but the truly breathtaking bit comes from when Inanna achieve higher understanding, carving beauty in the brutality. The spacey, 70s prog influence strikes like a charge through the heart of death; the guitars are illuminated with a certain radiate light that reaches past the darkness. The revelation becomes clear in the final lines of the song, painted against the backdrop of the beautiful and deadly terrain of Inanna’s homeland:

Rejuvenated, my soul doused in infinite wisdom
A new sense of foresight guides me now
The sky has turned green, beyond the nearby islands
Our Captain’s new form shines behind the Teeth of Navarino

An epic conclusion to a truly epic work.

While all three of Inanna’s full-length albums are class epochs in their own right, something about Void Of Unending Depths feels closer to the fever dream one would imagine a young Diego Ilabaca had so many years ago. If Converging Ages is a proof of concept, Transfiguration In A Thousand Delusions is a proof of ability, then Void Of Unending Depths stands triumphantly as a vision manifested into reality. It’s a journey worth taking time and again to appreciate both its magnitude and its nuance. It crafts an otherworldly, cosmic mood without relying on studio wizardry and without touching a single synthesizer across its transcendental 58 minutes. The only boundaries are the ones the band lays intentionally; Please, somebody give these guys Blood Incantation’s production budget! And for fuck’s sake issue this (as well as their back catalogue) on vinyl already!*

What makes any style of metal “true” is the discovery of power in the darkness, the ability to walk through the flames and emerge not only unscathed by them but strengthened by their heat. After all, steel reaches its greatest resilience when hardened by the dichotomy of fire and ice. Even death itself can be viewed through a dense lens of violent terror or a kaleidoscopic refraction of beauty: It all comes down the the perspectives through which it is experienced. Inanna embody the progressive in the truest, most extreme sense; they seek to transcend death, to take hold of the power they wield over it, and to guide their listeners through the flames to a greater understanding. True mastery of death can only be realized when death itself becomes but another tool in the toolbox, and but a seed to be nurtured into a higher purpose.

Death, as they say, is only the beginning.

*Inanna’s debut, Converging Ages, is also set to be reissued on CD in the coming months via Desert Wastelands Productions. Stay vigilant: Hail Inanna, hail true metal of death!

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