Freak of the Week at Ram\’s Head Live

In 1999, Butch Walker’s power pop band, The Marvelous 3, scored a top five hit with “Freak of the Week,” a song about an indie band getting a taste of fame.  When the song fell off the charts, the band was promptly forgotten by their label, and left to wallow in Buzz Ballads purgatory.

When Walker played “Freak of the Week” during his acoustic set at Ram’s Head Live, the crowd roared.  Not because it was the song they came to hear, but because it has become a rarity.  Butch Walker is no longer the lead singer of The Marvelous 3, but his own man.  The Marvies and Left of Self-Centered certainly introduced some of the crowd to Butch Walker (myself included), but nobody was there to huddle under a warm blanket of nostalgia.

Butch Walker has a few well-known songs, but not a signature.  Because of this, he can play what he wants. He can open the show with an acoustic set, or he can storm the stage with his Les Paul blazing.  Like any artist with a robust body of work, there are a few songs you can generally count on, but nothing is a sure thing.  That is what makes a Butch Walker show special.  Even “Cigarette Lighter Love Song,” the closest thing he has to a signature song, gets played with.  The first time I saw him, he did it with a full band, like on the album.  The second time, he was on the piano.  At Ram’s Head last week, he scrapped the instrumentation entirely, performing the song a cappella.

Hardcore fans often lament the fact that Butch Walker isn’t a bigger star, that he should be selling out theatres instead of playing clubs.  He should.  However, watching Butch at Ram’s Head, I realized that if he had a huge hit single, he would have to make certain concessions.  The loose, freewheeling structure of his show would be gone.  He would have to play the hits, and concentrate on what the fans of that single wanted to hear.  They wouldn’t want to hear the evolution of Butch as a songwriter, which is what the crowd at Ram’s Head was lucky enough to get.  They didn’t get a Butch Walker show, they got his musical history; from the guitar duel of “Freebird”, to the Marvelous 3, to The Black Widows.  Butch wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sebastian Bach is one of heavy metal’s great interpreters.  Dave “The Snake” Sabo and Rachael Bolan were good songwriters, and Skid Row would have probably been successful with another singer, but Bach took their songs and shaped them into molten slabs of rock.  He has the combustible mixture of technical virtuosity and personal charisma that all great singers possess, regardless of genre.

So where is it?  Sebastian Bach rarely sounds like Sebastian Bach on Kicking and Screaming, his first solo album in almost five years. Listening to Sebastian Bach sing was like watching a great actor perform Shakespeare.  He would pick apart every lyric and figure out where to inject his trademark mannerisms.  He was so good at his craft that it never felt like showbiz trickery.  On Kicking and Screaming, every Bachism is intact, but they feel tacked on.  He’s screaming because he feels he has to, not because it fits the music.

You could make the argument that Bach is just trying to work with the material he was given.  If this was the case, I would be more forgiving, but Bach co-wrote many of the songs.  Bach is still writing from a 19 year old’s point of view.  He’s misunderstood, he’s full of aggression, and he’s still untouchable.  Metal is an ageless genre, but Bach is trying to portray the guy from the “Youth Gone Wild” video.  He’s not that guy anymore, and he hasn’t been for a long time. Besides, even if you write from a place of arrested development, couldn’t you come up with a better line than “I’m the original crazy/in a world that I never known?”

The lyrics are complimented by the most generic heavy metal that Bach has ever lent his vocals to.  The metal press has made a big deal over Bach’s latest axe-slinger, 21 year old prodigy, Nick Sterling, but he doesn’t bring much to the table.  He can shred, but his playing isn’t very distinctive.  His style consists of by-the-numbers metal riffing with a flashy but faceless solo on top.  His playing is also hindered by the terrible production, which is as clean and septic as a hospital hallway.

When Skid Row released Slave to the Grind two decades ago, it was a quantum leap from the rebellious party rock of their self-titled debut.  On that record, Sebastian Bach sounded like he was capable of anything.  Now he’s just another guy, trading on past glories.  Bach’s voice is still there, but the fire is gone.  It’s a damn shame.

The career of Elvis Presley is usually broken into two arcs.  The first is Young Elvis, the greasy haired hillbilly with a dangerous sneer and gyrating pelvis.  The second is Gilded Elvis, the overweight drug addict in a white sequined jumpsuit, belting out “My Way” as rivers of sweat poured from his black helmet of hair.  However, there is an arc in Elvis Presley lore that is often overlooked by the general public and rock critics alike, The Pop Idol.

Contrary to John Lennon’s belief, Presley’s artistic sprit did not die when he went into the army.  On the contrary, he entered RCA’s newly minted studio in Nashville with an unquenchable thirst to prove that he was more than just a rock n’ roll singer.  Revisionist history has painted Elvis’ post-army direction as Colonel Tom Parker exerting control over his client.  This theory could not be further from the truth.  Rock n’ roll was on shaky ground in 1960.  Little Richard had gone into the ministry, Chuck Berry was in jail, Jerry Lee Lewis was blackballed for marrying his fourteen year old cousin, and Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper perished in an Iowa cornfield.  Rock became a genre of singles, one hit wonders and clean cut teenagers.  Rock n’ roll was not a career.  Elvis Presley was savvy enough to realize this, and knew he had to do an about face.

Shortly before the album’s release, Elvis was Frank Sinatra’s special guest on a Timex television special entitled Welcome Back Elvis.  In a moment of pop culture detente, Sinatra crooned a few verses of “Love Me Tender,” as Elvis shook his hips to “Witchcraft.”  Cynical critics wrote the duet off as Elvis paying his respects to the old guard.  When Elvis is Back was released shortly after, critics and fans alike were surprised at how traditional it sounded.  The arrangements were more subdued.  Elvis voice was deeper, smoother and rarely quivered or hiccupped.  “It’s Now or Never” could have been sung by Eddie Fischer or Mario Lanza.  It didn’t smack of danger as his earlier albums had, which is probably why some fans saw it as a betrayal.  There is nothing rebellious about a man in a white turtleneck.

Elvis is Back doesn’t sound like a revolution, but it’s arguably the best he album he ever made.  The reason it works is because the songs were well chosen, the musicianship was impeccable and Elvis Presley was determined to prove that he was more than a hick from Tupelo Mississippi.  When Elvis was engaged, he could make even the most saccharine song work.  Take “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” one of his best known songs from this period.  It’s maudlin, overwrought and a touch melodramatic, and features the most ridiculous monologue in the history of recorded music.  In the hands of Perry Como, Tennessee Ernie Ford or even Andy Williams, it would be resigned to late-night Time Life infomercials, but Elvis’s interpretation keeps it relevant.  Like his hero Marlon Brando, he brings his own experiences to every song he sings.  On the surface, “Are You Lonesome Tonight” is addressed to Pricilla Beaulieu, the gorgeous American teenager he dated while stationed in Germany.  However, he could also be singing about his own feelings of isolation after losing his mother two years before.  It could be interpreted a dozen different ways, making it one of his most unfairly maligned performances,

But he had to betray his rock n’ roll credibility for such a performance, right?  Wrong.  In the middle of all the sweet and syrupy pop comes “Reconsider Baby,” one of the toughest songs Elvis ever recorded.  Over a slinky acoustic guitar and Boots Randolph seductive saxophone, Elvis snarls his way through the Lowell Fulson classic.  He no longer sounds like a greasy-haired trucker from Tupelo, but an experienced veteran who has experienced the world outside of his hometown.  He may be asking the girl to reconsider, but he knows that he is capable of getting any female in the world.

Elvis is Back! proved that Elvis Presley’s appeal went beyond the rock n’ roll ghetto, but his new style quickly became an albatross around his neck.  He became seduced by the easy paychecks of lightweight Hollywood musicals, and exerted less control over the songs he sung.  As the ‘60s became “The ‘60s,” Elvis’s pop leanings became archaic.  He stopped caring, and released some of the most mediocre music of his career, which has blurred the greatness of Elvis is Back!  As with his late ‘60s comeback, there is a ton of wasted potential.  If Elvis had remained motivated, what could he have accomplished?   Unfortunately, this question would never be answered.

“We were always waiting for something to happen.”
-The Gaslight Anthem, “Great Expectations”

Something has happened.  The Gaslight Anthem has gone from a promising young rock band to the Next Big Thing.  They have gone from playing small clubs in their native New Jersey to playing “The ’59 Sound” with Bruce Springsteen in England.  The greatest of expectations have been heaped upon American Slang, and it largely lives up to the hype.

It’s hard to listen to American Slang without thinking of Bruce Springsteen’s breakthrough, Born to Run.  Both records are about leaving your comfort zone and moving to bigger and better things.  But while Born to Run is about leaving to escape the small town, American Slang is more optimistic.  The Gaslight Anthem have left New Jersey not because of extenuating circumstances, but because they want to see what is beyond their world.

The title track will draw some comparisons to “Great Expectations,” but there are several key differences.  In “Great Expectations,” Fallon was restless because he didn’t know how to get out of his situation.  He’s restless in “American Slang,” because he’s getting ready to move on.  He lays it on the all on the line in the first couple verses, “I seem to be coming out of my skin/Look what you’ve forgotten here/the bandages won’t keep me in.”  Instead of sounding urgent, the guitars ring out.  He spent the first two records preparing for this moment and now he’s finally ready.

Now that the band is moving away from their Jersey roots, the punk influence of the first two records is slightly toned down.  Alex Rosamilia’s guitar playing is still driving, but it jangles rather than crackles.  Instead of bashing the drums, Ben Horowitz playing is more reserved and tasteful.   The streamlined sound puts more of an emphasis on the choruses, which are even bigger than The ’59 Sound.  “The Boxer” begins with the chorus chanted over sparse drum beats, anticipating audience participation

The band was listening to a lot of vintage soul while making this album and it shows.  Fallon’s singing is smoother, with a hint of gospel.  On “The Queen of Lower Chelsea,” the music is mixed in the back, with the emphasis on the vocals.  The lyrics are hopeful, but there is a hint of sadness when he sings, “nothing is free/not even me.”

But maybe it isn’t sadness, but wistfulness.  The Gaslight Anthem is in a precarious position.  Two years ago they were still four kids from Jersey, psyched to get a cover story on AP.  Now they are regularly featured in Rolling Stone.  Some fans may balk at the sound of the new record, complaining that it’s no longer punk rock.  The guitars don’t buzz like they did on Sink or Swim, but the heart of this band is still a mile wide.  The sound is bigger and more polished, but The Gaslight Anthem hasn’t forgotten who brought them to the dance.

I wasn’t surprised when Sleigh Bells sold out The Ottobar.  The Ottobar is the hippest rock club in Baltimore, and Sleigh Bells is generating a ton of critical buzz.  In this case, the critical buzz is warranted because they made a great record.  However, when a band generates such attention, you get a lot of people that go so they can say “I saw Sleigh Bells at a tiny club in Baltimore.  They were rough around the edges, but you knew they were going to be something special.”  Music geeks are suckers for such anecdotes, present company included.

I went to the show with pre-conceived notions of what it would be, and Sleigh Bells exceeded my expectations in every possible way.

Sleigh Bells’ show had something that is absent in 99 percent of the shows I see: mystique.  All the critical praise in the world cannot give you that.  They were able to grab the audience from the first note of the intro.  The intro has become a lost art.  Some people write them off as pretentious and unnecessary, but I think it’s the opposite.  When an intro is done correctly, it builds the tension to a fever pitch.  The crowd holds its breath because they are waiting to see the object of their desire.  When the artist finally appears, there is an audible release.

Sleigh Bells’ intro was perfectly executed.  The lights went down and there was a roar.  A monologue played over the PA as the roar got louder.  When the monologue ended, guitarist Derek Miller appeared onstage, playing several riffs.  The crowd got louder, but the release wasn’t quite there.  He continued playing the riff, with the volume increasing each time.   Then the riff broke, and the unmistakable machine gun beat of “Tell ‘Em” came through.  Here was the release.  The crowd went nuts as Alexis Krauss ran onstage.

Since Alexis Krauss is the frontwoman, conventional wisdom says that she would have a spotlight.  She’s a pretty girl, after all.   Wrong. The stage was bathed in red, purple or strobe light.  You never saw Krauss’ or Miller’s face.  If her face ever came close to being exposed, she tossed her hair or turned her back to the audience.  You saw an outline of a girl running across the stage.  You saw two outlines meeting each other and then backing away.  You saw an outline climb a stack of amps.

Based on that description, you would think that Krauss and Miller are detached from their audience. On the contrary, there was little physical division between the band and the audience.  Krauss jumped offstage and sang in the middle of the pit and interacted with fans in the front row.  However, when she sensed she was giving too much away, she took a step back.   She successfully walked the line between total accessibility and mysterious restraint.

Derek Miller is the opposite of Alexis Krauss.  While she got the crowd riled up, Miller hung in the shadows, hitting his Gibson SG with precise bursts.  He stretched out every note, letting them linger as long as possible before banging it again.  The interplay between Krauss and Miller was fascinating to watch.   It reminded me of the onstage relationship of Kurt Cobain and Krist Novoselic.  One was insular and focused, while the other played the part of the rock hero.  However, the thing that really struck me was how often Krauss approached Miller; as if she was drawing power from his guitar, and she was the physical extension of what he was playing.

Sleigh Bells were onstage for only 45 minutes and they made every second count.  Instead of beating the crowd into the ground, they left them wanting more.   When they left the stage, I asked myself what I just saw.  That is always a good sign.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, it took me a while to process the day ahead.  Eleven hours at Sonar.  I took a deep breath, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and rolled out of bed.  I was drained from the night before, and I’d only gotten my feet wet.   I arrived at Sonar a little after 1:00.  I ran into a couple I met during the Flamingo Nosebleeds’ set.  They were eating pizza and drinking Slurpees with the same glazed look I had.  The girl had only gotten three hours of sleep and blisters on her feet.  She took one last slurp and then went inside.

The setup remained the same as the night before, except the hamburger stand moved into the alley.  The only way to get to the alley was through the back of the lounge, which was up three steps.  A security guard had to get my food.  This was a minor hiccup, but it was slightly annoying.  They should have had one stand inside and one in the alley.  The burger was decent; hot and fresh with melty cheese.

Before we get to the music, I have a confession to make.  After the Beatnik Termites’ set, I went to the lounge to see Deep Sleep.  I went to a vacant corner of the bar, where I promptly fell asleep.  I woke up to a middle-aged woman offering me a brownie.   It was delicious…I think. Thank you.

I moved around more on the second day trying to see as many bands as I could.  Here are the ones that made the biggest impression.

• The Beatnik Termites: The Beatnik Termites are technically a punk band, but not really.  Electric doo-wop would be a much better term.  Simple songs about the joys and fears of teenage romance played at maximum decibels.  Their set was a ton of fun.
• Zapoteks: These guys weren’t on my radar until I met the drummer backstage.   We had a conversation about cricket.  I still have no idea how to play it.  It’s interesting to note that most bands on the bill had a distinctly American sound and sensibility.  The Zapoteks were British, and they sounded like it.  The riffs weren’t slow, but they weren’t delivered in a rapid fire pace either.  The singer had a Cockney affectation, and they whooped like a pack of soccer hooligans.  It was a nice change of pace.
• Blacklist Royals: Fast tempo + big choruses + ‘50s retro vibes = Awesome band.

• Teenage Bottlerocket: The first headlining band of the evening.  Teenage Bottlerocket were four superballs let loose.  They jumped, ran and hit their guitars with a childlike zeal.  The crowd responded by slam dancing and stage diving..  Kids ran up onstage and dove into a pulsing sea of humanity.  It got dicey a few times, but nobody got hurt. When the band and crowd are feeding off each other, it always creates magic.

• The Smoking Popes: The crowd was drained after Teenage Bottlerocket, so it took a little while for them to warm up to the Popes, but the more relaxed atmosphere suited the band.  One of the things that I admired about their set was how unpretentious it was.  They got onstage and they played their songs.  Again, there was no disconnect between the band and their audience.

• Less Than Jake: The headliners.  Less Than Jake are really good at what they do.  They have fun songs and tons of energy.  However, my tolerance for ska is limited, especially when I am exhausted.  I stayed for half their set and decided to beat the crowd.  They brought it though, and they are worth seeing live.  I would have enjoyed it more if it wasn’t 1:00 in the morning.

Overall Thoughts: The main thing I took away from Insubordination Fest was the feeling of community.  Everyone was there to have good time and support each other, which is the complete opposite of the average corporate rock fest.  If you are a fan of punk rock and have never experienced it, grab a couple friends and be prepared to mosh.

Author’s note: I would like to personally thank Chris Thacker of Insubordination Records for hooking me up with VIP passes.

The kids moved from room to room like swarms of locusts.  When a band finished their set, they would move on.  Some went to the main room to hear Kepi Goulie, others moved to the lounge for Protagonist.  Others were content to float from room to room, sampling a band and then moving on.

I regret to say that going to festivals every summer had become routine, both as a fan and as a journalist.   The ritual never changes.  A list of bands is announced, you decide what bands to see and then you sweat it out in a stadium for nine hours.  Insubordination Fest was an entirely different animal.  Even though I consider myself a fan of punk rock, I had marginal knowledge of the bill and had only been to Sonar once.  The weekend was an adventure, and it was a helluva lot of fun.

Friday:

I arrived at 6:00 and drank it all in.  Sonar’s main room functioned as both the main stage and the midway.  The club stage was devoted to bands of a Canadian persuasion, and the lounge had the look and feel of a basement punk show.   Although Insubordination Records is known for pop punk, almost every subgenre was represented.  Here are the highlights

• The Night Birds: The Night Birds were on the main stage as I arrived.  The songs were short, simple and had a lot of screaming.
• Old Wives: Canada isn’t really known for punk rock, which is why a Canadian stage was a stroke of genius.  Old Wives continue the classic punk rock tradition of sweaty dudes and a foxy bassist.  She had glasses and wore an Iron Maiden t-shirt.  I spent the majority of their set trying to remember facts from the Canada unit of my sixth grade social studies class.  In the immortal words of the great philosopher Wayne Campbell, she could wail.
• Flamingo Nosebleed: The lounge stage was my favorite in terms of atmosphere because it reminded me of all the great basement shows I’ve been to.  There was nothing between the crowd and the band.  I only caught the last song of Flamingo Nosebleed’s set, but they got the crowd going.  They even managed to start a four person mosh.  Oh to be fourteen again.
• Noise By Numbers: Noise By Numbers reminded me of Jawbreaker.  After three lightning fast punk bands, the slower pace was refreshing.  Their songs were incredibly melodic and had huge choruses.  When the lead singer hit high notes, you could see the veins in his neck.  That’s commitment.
• The Hamiltons: The Hamiltons packed the Canadian room.  I bumped into the same girl about seven times to keep from blocking the door.  That was annoying, but they won me over with their cover of The Ramones’ “Judy Is a Punk.”  When they tore into the riff, I looked over at the girl, and she was singing along.  The Ramones are the common thread of punk rock.  No matter what subgenre is your favorite, it all comes back to those three chords.
• Fear of Lipstick: I’d seen these guys on YouTube, and I made a point of seeing their set.  The crowd left the room en masse after The Hamiltons, so there were only about 25 people in the audience.  It was their loss, because Fear of Lipstick played one of the most dirty, energetic, sweaty and passionate sets of the weekend.  Canadians are usually so nice and polite, but Eric Dagle had a lovely snarl in his voice.  The Johnny Ramone-style strumming was even better.  Their hands pounded the strings so rapidly that it seemed like a blur.
• The Copyrights: Another highlight.   Big riffs, big choruses and a ton of energy.  The stage diving began with this set.  I preferred to watch it from the safety of backstage.

• American Steel; I shook Rory Henderson’s hand as he walked offstage.  It was covered in sweat.  These guys had the unenviable task of warming up the crowd before The Queers and they rose to the occasion.  The heavy power-pop influence of their music slowed the pace a little bit, which made them the perfect lead-in for The Queers.

• The Queers: Like The Ramones, but a little bit more California surf-inspired.  The Queers didn’t say much, just pounded it out for an hour and closed with “Rockaway Beach.”  It was a fitting end to the first day.

Tomorrow: Day Two

When Christina Aguilera released her debut album a decade ago, she was branded as a big-voiced Britney Spears clone.  She did everything she could to break out of that box, transforming herself into a durrty girl and a torch singer.  Her ability to change helped her remain relevant after her contemporaries reached their expiration dates.   Now the tables have turned.  Instead of being ahead of the curve, Aguilera is desperately trying to keep up.

Christian Aguilera’s biggest asset has always been her voice, which has the ability to hit notes that only dogs can hear.  Her vocal pyrotechnics have made people forget that she has no personality whatsoever.  Her banality wasn’t a problem in the past because she had decent material.   Bionic proves that her voice isn’t enough anymore.

Bionic is supposed to be a futuristic pop album in the vein of Lady Gaga’s The Fame.  Aguilera talk-sings about how great it is to be glam and all the freaky-deaky things she can do in the bedroom.  This is a fine concept for an album, except Aguilera clearly has no idea what glam entails.

In the first 30 seconds of “Not Myself Tonight,” she breathily proclaims that she is “not a character.”  Christina, honey….glam is all about character.  You create an idealized version of yourself so that you can live out all your fantasies.

The lack of character also manifests in the vocal arrangements.  Aguilera’s vocal style is still locked in the year 2000, when a pop star’s worth was judged by the volume of their voice.  This method doesn’t work on Bionic because instead of a lush pop production, the songs are built around synthesizers and drum machines.  Aguilera’s vocals come in two varieties; breathily sexy and maximum overdrive.  For instance, “Glam” begins with Aguilera coyly telling the listener “paint yourself like a beauty queen and embrace the diva inside.”    She sticks with this façade for a while, but can’t resist the high notes.  She belts, and belts and belts.  For someone that is apparently not herself, she sounds just like Christina Aguilera.

The high notes are not the problem here.  Aguilera has been blessed with very powerful pipes and she should use them. But Aguilera has never learned how to use the voice to her advantage.  When you belt out “OH YEAH!” in every song, it loses its impact.  It turns into a game.  “When will she do it?  There it is!”

Lyrically, Ms. Aguilera tries to push sexual boundaries.  She wants to go all up in that club and kiss girls.  She wants sex for breakfast.  She wants the men of America to turn Japanese as they watch her brazen image.  This approached worked when she was 21, but is a tad creepy coming from a married mother of a toddler. Sample lyric:  “Your rubber band is what I call your love for me/cause it comes and goes and pins me like a trampoline.”  Really?

The lyrics don’t work because she can’t pull them off, not because she is a mother.  She’s trying to hold onto something that left a long time ago.

Aguilera’s last album, Back to Basics, was a fine example of a pop star maturing.  It worked because Christina understood the genre she was going for.  She understood how to deliver torch songs.  She has no idea how to sing like Lady Gaga, because Gaga’s music is based on genres that Aguilera has had limited exposure to.  Bionic makes Christina Aguilera sound dated, which is the last thing a pop star wants to be.

Nearly a decade after the fall of nu-metal, Godsmack stands triumphant.  Korn is on the nostalgia circuit and Limp Bizkit can’t decide if they want to be a band or not.  Godsmack has their second number one album.  They remain the only relevant band of the TRL-metal era.  They should be commended for this achievement.

The first Godsmack album is one of the best examples of the nu-metal era.  At a time when guitars were used as rhythmic instruments, Godsmack’s traditional hard rock approach was refreshing.  Since nu-metal has retreated to the background, Godsmack is just another mainstream hard rock band.

The Oracle is like a piece of meat that has been overcooked and left under a heat lamp for five hours.  There is absolutely no taste, flavor, or color.  This is as bland as hard rock gets.  Every song follows the same beige formula. The song titles read like a roll call of badass clichés: “Crying Like a Bitch,” “Good Day to Die,” “Saints and Sinners,” “War and Peace.”   The guitars are heavy, but not so heavy that they would alienate program directors.  They chug along as Sully Erna bleats some lyrics about pain or something.  Then there is a bridge to the chorus, which is slightly louder than the chorus.  Add a couple wanktastic solos, and you have The Oracle.

After listening to The Oracle several times, I couldn’t recall a riff, a lyric or a solo.  This is the problem with many mainstream hard rock bands.  Godsmack has earned the right to tinker with their sound.  They could experiment with loud and soft dynamics.  Erna could try to lower his voice to add some shading.  The guitar solos could be less arena rock influenced and slightly more technical.  But they don’t.  They are coasting on the goodwill of a couple dynamite singles, and their fans have been duped by it.

The saddest part of Oracle should have been a neat moment.  Near the beginning of the title track, the band plays a few notes from Metallica’s “Call of Ktulu.”  This is an inspired musical allusion, and it grabbed my attention.  However, instead of applauding Godsmack for their subtlety, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ride the Lightning.

Godsmack should be an interesting band.  Their lead singer is a devout Wiccan.  That’s so metal!  They make references to it, but they aren’t exploiting it.   They aren’t bad musicians either.  The guitars play in tandem nicely and the rhythm section is solid.  They don’t know how to escape radio rock purgatory.

If any Godsmack fans are reading this, you are probably saying to yourself, “Well that’s all fine and good John, but I just want to rock out.”

I understand.   Rocking out is an exhilarating feeling; I do it daily.  However, there are better things to rock out to.  How about The Wildhearts or Hanoi Rocks?  Thin Lizzy?  AC/DC?  Even the first Godsmack album would be a better choice.  The Oracle claims to know all and see all, but it hasn’t left 1999.

Treats is not a record for coming down on a Sunday morning.  It’s a rager.  It’s a club at 3 AM, packed with beautiful people and cigarette smoke.  It’s snorting lines of cocaine and chasing it down with shot after shot of whiskey.  It’s waking up in your trendy loft apartment and trying to figure out just what the hell happened last night.

In Kurt Vonnegut’s short story, Harrison Bergeron, the smartest people in society are forced to wear earpieces that transmit excessively loud noises when they have an intelligent though.  This is what Sleigh Bells sounds like.  Treats is an abrasive record, full of clanging keyboards, charging guitars and skull-obliterating drums.  The noise is almost overpowering, but there is a layer of sweetness that runs through, and her name is Alexis Krauss.

The opening track, “Tell ‘Em,” begins with three rapid-fire drum fills followed by churning stabs of guitar.  In the middle of all this mayhem, Krauss comes in.  Her voice is girlish and sweet, similar to Ronnie Spector.  She rarely changes her inflection and the lyrics are almost unintelligible over the chaos, but her presence shows that Sleigh Bells is more than distortion.  Underneath the layers of noise, they are essentially a pop band.

Sleigh Bells is the brainchild of former Poison the Well guitarist, Derek Miller.   You can see shades of his former band in the guitar, which is insistent and grating.  However, he also has a gift for dance grooves, exemplified by the single, “Crown on the Ground.”    Although everything is mixed in the red, the groove is irresistible.  Using a mixture of distorted guitars and industrial keyboards, Miller created an alternate universe version of DMX’s “Party Up.”  When something is mixed to maximum capacity, it’s easy to get caught up in the noise and forget about the music.  With Sleigh Bells, the hooks come first.

The highlight of the album is “Infinity Guitars,” which sums up the band’s aesthetic in three and a half minutes.  It’s a simple arrangement; just a guitar riff and some drums.  The guitar and drums are loud, but much softer than the rest of the album.  It lumbers along for the first couple of minutes, with Krauss singing demurely overtop of it.  At this point, “Infinity Guitars,” is the most conventional song on the album, but it switches gears in the final minute.  The riff doesn’t change, but the intensity does.  Krauss is barking, trying to keep up with the hurricane behind her.   Sleigh Bells changed gears so rapidly that I found myself knocked back.  It’s a devastating moment.

It’s trite to suggest that a record needs to be played at maximum volume, but it’s really the only way to listen to Treats.  If your brain isn’t slamming against the back of your skull, you aren’t listening to it correctly.  It’s a beautiful piece of noise