The brightest always burn out the quickest. Audioslave lasted a mere five years but unleashed three albums in the same time most bands can only crank out one or two. It was a collaboration that bore sweet fruit. Ronnie James Dio used to say that when it came to collaborations, the first album was usually the best. That’s true of Audioslave.
Their first, self-titled album checks all the boxes: monster grooves, soaring vocals and wonky solos. Since it’s produced by Rick Rubin you know it’s gonna be loud. You can also count on a clear, big drum sound which Rubin achieves. At 14 tracks, the album is swollen, but despite its long runtime there is nary a dud.
There are some who, at the time at least, felt that Rage Against The Machine’s style of abnormally funky rap-metal could not be adapted to hard rock. They felt the fit between Chris Cornell and the Rage guys was forced and resulted in something that would only appeal to Soundgarden’s fans while alienating those of Rage. While there is a smidgen of truth to that assertion, Rage have proven time and again that they can pretty much do anything. No boundaries.
No tracks to skip, either, but some you may want to focus extra attention on. “Cochise” about the revered Indian warrior, has a groove that can crack concrete. Same with “Show Me How to Live” and “Gasoline”, heavier than the proverbial lead balloon, but infested with melodic vocals. Audioslave could even pull off slower material, though you’d be hesitant to call them “ballads”. “Like A Stone” is essential: precision, smoky rock crooning. The spare arrangement allows Chris’ vocals to make the impact, though the bass is certainly earth-moving. As if that wasn’t enough, Tom Morello’s solo combines his trademark noisy note-work with epic composition.
Despite the quality tracks before and after, the best may be the angry “Set It Off”. It slams. It’s closest to Rage’s anarchist tendencies. It’s just pissed off.
He was standing at the rock, Gathering the flock, And getting there with no directions, And underneath the arch, It turned into a march, And there he found the spark to set this fucker off.
A 14 track album this good could earn a 2000 word analysis, but we’ll save that for an inevitable deluxe edition. There are lots of B-sides and bonus tracks from this album that need to be properly collected into a set, like the download-only “Give”, a rhythmic little extra. Suffice to say, Audioslave is an essential album for anybody who ever liked rock music. There is a purity to it. As the liner notes say, “all sounds made by guitar, bass, drums, and vocals.” Even the weird squonky shit, so be ready for your mind and soul to be blown. Sit back and absorb it a while, because there’s a lot here to assimilate into your blood.
I get a lot of hits from people hoping to buy my stuff. This one popped up recently in my search terms:
“vince neil dragon guitar for sale”
Several years ago, the Vince Neil “dragon guitar” by Washburn was on sale so I picked one up. So did my buddy Thuss — except he did sell his. This is his story of how it (eventually) went down.
GETTING MORE TALE #791: The True Story of Thuss’s Vince Neil “Dragon Guitar”
BY THUSS
Lebrain and I had matching guitars for a while, that we both bought at the now defunct Future Shop. They were on clearance and we got them for a really good price ($70 plus tax, originally $300 each, limited to 2500 pieces). They were Washburn dragon guitars which were “autographed” by Vince Neil. The only real autograph in the package was Vince Neil’s actual signature on the certificate of authenticity. After a couple years I decided to sell mine as I never really played it anymore and had moved onto different hobbies.
So I did what everyone else did, and put it up on Kijiji. I wasn’t in a hurry to sell it so I put it up for more than double what I paid for it. I had a few bites, but nothing serious until one guy from Toronto wanted it. He was desperate for it! But there was only one problem: he didn’t drive. First he came to me with an offer of triple what I paid for it if I delivered it to his house. As I said I wasn’t in a hurry to sell it, so I answered no.
I didn’t hear from him for a week or so. Then he emailed back, and asked if I would meet him at the bus station downtown for what I was asking for it. Again I said no, because I hate driving downtown and I didn’t want to pay for parking just to make a sale.
Again a week passed, and he emailed me back. He said “OK”. He’d take about six buses and meet me at my house and he will give me what I’m asking for it. I said sure, and not surprisingly he never showed up.
At this point I had another offer from a dad wanting to buy it for his son. His offer was below what I was asking, but still well above what I paid for it. I accepted, and when they came to pick it up, the son was so happy to have a guitar. He was really excited to start playing, so I’m glad I sold it to someone who would appreciate it.
I thought this was the end of the story but come a month later, the original guy emailed me and said one of his friends was going to drive out to my house so he could pick it up. “Sorry,” I told him, “but I sold it to someone else.”
Guitar-guy immediately emailed me back, and he was pissed! He told me he said he wanted it, and was going to pick it up, so why did I sell it to someone else? I said it was almost two months since he first contacted me and I moved on and sold it to someone else. Finally that got rid of him and I never heard from him again. You meet some “interesting” people on Kijiji. At least I didn’t tell him LeBrain had one too!
Everybody eventually hits that age, when they are “too old” to go trick-or-treating for candy. Highschool seemed like a good age to draw the line. Time to start handing out the candy instead of collecting it. We all have to grow up eventually.
Do we?
Naw, screw that!
In the 10th grade, a new Halloween tradition was inaugurated. As told in Getting More Tale #548:
We started preparing for Halloween in late August. We began by making heads out of papier-mâché. Ours were crude, but when dressed up with sunglasses, hats or wigs, did the trick. Then we would begin working on an audio tape. This was a 60-minute long compilation of scary bits from Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden albums. We hid some speakers outside and would play the tape on a loop for background scary sounds. Kids loved it. Really small ones were scared, so we had to stop the tape and turn on the lights for them, but 95% thought it was awesome (including parents). We’d see kids across the street, and they’d make a beeline for our house as soon as they saw it. My favourite costume was the one I made in grade 10: Alice Cooper.
Oh, that Alice Cooper costume! I painted flames on an old black jacket so it would look something like Alice’s. I wore his makeup. I had fake tattoos (not knowing that Alice didn’t have any). I had a pair of handcuffs on my belt. Best of all though, was the sword I wore on my hip. It was actually a fireplace poker, but you couldn’t tell in the dark.
Making the annual audio tape was a long, arduous process. We’d fast-forward through our tape collections to record tiny bits of songs, and loop them. The ending to “Children of the Grave” and the intro to “Powerslave” were perfect. Occasionally we’d throw in the middle of “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” with the narration and creepy violin. Black Sabbath’s “The Dark” was almost custom made for our needs. As time went on and our collections grew, we had more music to choose from. Any time one of us would buy an album with music perfect for Halloween, one of us would excitedly phone the other. In later years I was fond of the middle section from “Nightcrawler” by Judas Priest. But it was tedious work. You couldn’t just play the same sections over and over again, you had to space them out so kids wouldn’t get the same bits repeated while you stood there handing out candy. We spent hours upon hours making this tape that would only be used for one night. Blank tapes were a commodity. We were always using them up, and looking for something to erase. Halloween tapes were first to go. Besides, we wanted to do it again the following year, but better!
Our scary tapes would be augmented by flashing lights courtesy of…a flashlight. Eventually, Bob figured out how to hook up a microphone to our primitive audio setup. We could then speak directly to the kids!
“You…across the street…come here for a treat! Muahahahah!”
Mom & dad didn’t approve. To them we just made a big mess and a lot of noise. Indeed, I can remember trying to wash off that Alice Cooper makeup at the end of the night. I left a black ring around the tub. But my dad hated handing out candy, so I hope he appreciated that he was relieved of that duty. Considering how long we prepared, it was actually a long ongoing mess. Ever made papier-mâché? No neat and tidy way to do it. Those heads were the most work, and we left a trail of destruction in the basement, forming and painting them. But once they were out on the front porch (either decapitated or as part of a fully clothed “body”) they sure were effective.
Bob eventually went to college, and the traditional Halloween House was discontinued. I did it a few times without him but all the fun was gone. The idea was briefly resurrected in the late 1990s, at T-Rev’s place. As told in Record Store Tales Part 148:
T-Rev had this cool “alien head” — he got it back in ’97 or ’98 from a convenience store. It had alien head suckers inside. He asked the guy at the store, “how much for the alien head?” The guy answered, “If you buy all the suckers in it, you can have it.” So he did. (The candy was awful by the way. I did my share, trying to help him consume it all.) But he got this alien head out of it, and with it, made a cool alien costume. And for the Halloween party that year, I wore the costume.
I would sit in a chair on T-Rev’s front porch, still as could be. When a child would approach the door, I would suddenly move and say “Na-nu, na-nu”! The reactions were priceless. Some were scared, so I had to unmask and show I was just a regular guy.
“Give some candy to the Jedi over here!” I said, gesturing to the kid dressed as Darth Maul.
“I’m no Jedi!” he protested. I should have got my terminology right. I apologized to the Sith lord.
Even the Sith story is from 20 years ago. Not having kids, today Halloween has fizzled out. There are no trick-or-treaters in our building. Most people today doing a “haunted house” experience at home buy expensive decorations at chain stores. They get featured the in newspaper for having done an awesome job. That’s terrific. But we did everything ourselves. Everything. Nothing was “store bought”. We improvised everything with what we had, spending weeks putting it all together. Too bad the newspapers don’t cover kids who do everything themselves! We would have been featured every year.
Have a happy Halloween and don’t forget to brush those teeth!
“That was even more unsettling than I remember,” said Holen after viewing Eraserhead for the first time in many moons. You see, I hadn’t planned to review this surrealist masterpiece for my Halloween reviews, but then a funny thing happened. Criterion Collection had a 50% off sale, so I decided to order the Blu-ray of Eraserhead, finally adding one of the few missing pieces to my David Lynch collection, and securing one of my favorite films of all time in the process. I’m in pretty good company calling it a favorite, as it’s beloved by talents as diverse as Mel Brooks, Crispin Glover, and Stanley Kubrick. As a matter of fact, Kubrick screened this film on the set of The Shining in an attempt to express the mood he was trying to capture with his own film.
If you’ve never seen it and you believe that the following tidbit is giving you a solid idea of what to expect, you’d be pretty wrong. Eraserhead and The Shining may share similar abilities to cause tension, but that’s about it. Eraserhead honestly has more in common with 2001. It’s an overwhelming barrage of images and ideas, rather than concrete dialogue or relatable characters. Filmed in hazy black and white, the movie can best be summed up as a dream. Not dreamlike, but a dream. There’s very little in this film that we can connect back to our own world, and even the things that we recognize act in ways that we’ve never seen before. That process of making the common seem alien births fear. Like the chickens that come alive on their plates as you try to cut them.
But this fear is anchored in a sense of wide-eyed wonder. We’re unable to turn away, and much like a dream, we’re helpless to resist the unsettling events we’re seeing on the screen. The plot is simple. A man on vacation from his printing job in an industrial town learns he’s impregnated his girlfriend. She gives birth to a premature baby that doesn’t look humanoid at all. She doesn’t have the endurance to take care of the child, so he’s left to deal with it on his own. We see our “hero” Henry Spencer (Jack Nance) struggle with the realities of being a new father, and all the fear and repressed emotions that accompany this time. The film takes an unflinching look at the ID surrounding fatherhood. Henry fears being usurped by his own son, and worries that his status as a father will make women turn away from him in fear. He struggles with whether he should kill his “child”, being egged on by a woman that lives in his radiator with swollen cheeks
None of this is dealt with in a traditional way, and none of it is expressed through dialogue. It’s a visual film that manages to deal with the harsh realities of these subliminal primal feelings by masking their brutal nature in the ambiguous whimsical wrap of dream logic. It would be impossible to feel any empathy towards Henry in a traditional film, but this movie gives us a disturbing look into the inner psyche of a man pushed far outside of his comfort zone, outside of his sanity. None of Henry’s actions until the end of the film could be considered sinister at all, as his worries are almost entirely projected out through the world around him.
At first, Henry seems to be quite caring to his child in every way. He’s there when the mother is not, is concerned when the baby is sick, and generally seems to be a polite mild-mannered man. Like many David Lynch films, Eraserhead searches past the shiny surface into the dark underbelly of reality, however unpleasant it may be. He did the same thing with small town American suburbs in Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks, and Hollywood in Mulholland Dr.
For my money though, he never created another picture as personal and as inimitable as Eraserhead. It achieves what it sets out to do with no fat, no moment wasted in its brief 89 minute run-time. I don’t understand everything in Eraserhead, but to me that’s part of the charm. It’s a riveting picture more disturbing than most horror, it forces you to be an active viewer by constantly engaging your brain, and it explores aspects of fatherhood most of us would rather deny existed. The 4K restoration done by Criterion looks and sounds wonderful, as the soundtrack is as much a part of this movie as the visuals are. I didn’t know that industrial noise could be so involving and manipulative, but the oppressive sounds reinforce the images on screen with masterful synchronization. The minutes on end of heavy bass make your entire body clench up until it suddenly ceases and you sit wondering what the hell just happened to you. It’s truly a masterpiece of cinema, and an extraordinary debut film. If you can stomach the supreme tension, seek one out today!
“New The Mandalorian trailer looks like the Star Wars we’re used to,” says the media.
“What the fuck are you on?” says I.
The Mandalorian is Jon Favreau’s new Star Wars bounty hunter series starring Pedro Pascal, Carl Weathers and Werner Herzog. And it looks nothing — nothing at all — like “the Star Wars we’re used to”, so ignore the hype.
No Jedi. No Skywalkers. An unexplored timeline (just after Endor). No, this looks like something entirely new. Which is good. Don’t believe the hype. Tell the hype to fuck off.
“Is the world more peaceful since the revolution?” asks Herzog.
One thing that is exactly the same as old Star Wars: Nobody knows what a parsec is.
Review #2 in Holen’s Halloween Extravaganza for 2019!
JACK’S BACK (1988 Palisades)
Jack’s Back is the little thriller that couldn’t. It never had a chance with the shoddy distribution that it received. This is the feature film debut of Rowdy Herrington, who was also responsible for a film called Road House. Unfortunately, his debut didn’t receive a fraction of the recognition that Road House did. It got two thumbs up from Siskel & Ebert, and that’s about all the attention that it garnered in its original theatrical run. Nowadays, its status has hardly risen, but I believe that this has the quality to rise to cult status. As a matter of fact, I believe it’s quite a bit better than most thriller/horror films that have gained such distinction, and much more intelligent as well.
Despite sounding like an exploitation film, being shot on a shoestring budget, and a shitty trailer, Jack’s Back succeeds as an intelligent crime caper with enough twists and turns to keep the audience from ever completely solving the mystery or losing interest. The most invaluable asset to this movie may be leading man James Spader, one of America’s best, brightest, and eccentric actors. The man is so well-spoken that you find yourself clinging on to every single word, a true silver-tongued devil. It makes sense that one of his most memorable turns (as Alan Shore on the fantastic Boston Legal opposite William Shatner) was as a lawyer. Here, he has a dual role as twin brothers, and he turns in an impressive performance in each instance. Even more impressive is how the two are so different. The first is a sensitive, caring, hospital worker. He’s a goody two shoes social activist, too good for this world it seems. The second is a tense, rebellious rapscallion, not afraid to break the rules, or get his hands dirty to get the job done. He’s not particularly selfless, and he doesn’t particularly give a shit.
The premise of this film is that it is one hundred years after the original Jack the Ripper murders, something fucky is going on. A copycat killer is recreating these killings, down to every minute detail. The gentle and measured brother (John Wesford) is suspected of being the killer posthumously. The cops are determined to pin it on somebody to calm public fears, so they jump the gun in declaring the culprit. They suspect John because he has the medical know-how to recreate the killings, and because of that fact that he mysteriously ends up hanged at his place of employment one night. They assume the guilt was too much to bear, and he took his own life. The only person that doesn’t believe John is Jack Jr. is his twin brother Ricky. Ricky saw his brother’s death in a clairvoyant dream, and it was not suicide at all in that vision. John was murdered. Ricky races to the scene of the crime minutes after it happens and finds his dead brother, leading the cops to view Ricky with suspicion. They believe that he may have killed his brother. Ricky then has to clear his name, and the name of his deceased brother. He knows that his brother’s killer will surely be the real Jack copycat. Or will he? Who knows? I do, I’ve seen the movie. You probably don’t, because you probably haven’t. Hardly anyone has.
What ensues is a wildly engrossing mystery that keeps you on your toes until the very end. There are moments of cheese of course, this film was released in 1988, but not once does this movie feel like the novelty that its title and tagline would suggest. For its modest budget, Jack’s Back hardly ever feels cheap, tacky, or undercooked. It’s suspenseful, charming, occasionally funny, and unlike many films today, it breathes. There’s life in this picture, and it’s clear that the participants are having a blast making it. Due to the modest budget and its incredibly fast shooting schedule, there was no time to mess around with this picture. That brisk controlled chaos contributes to the manic energy of the film, underscoring the tension of the second act. As of right now I believe it’s free to watch on Amazon Prime, so if you wanted to venture out to something spooky you haven’t seen this year, I’d highly recommend this one. Also the whole thing is on YouTube in HD.
But if you’re a physical media guy like me, and you have a Region A player, you can pick this one up to hold in your hands. The first time this film made it to disc in North America was a Blu-ray/DVD combo release a few years back done by Scream Factory. Surprisingly, I have nothing but praise for this disc. The special features are a little bare, but that’s to be expected for such a minor entry (commercially) in the careers of all involved. The video was meticulously restored in HD from the original negatives in its original aspect ratio of 1.85:1, and the picture looks better than anyone had any right to expect. It’s a low budget film from 1988, so temper your expectations, but I don’t see any evidence of print damage, excessive DNR, or shitty compression artifacts. I said surprisingly given that Shout! Factory has been very spotty in my opinion with regards to video quality. I appreciate everything that they do to bring us films that wouldn’t see a release by any other means, but some of their discs have been rather disappointing when it comes to their HD sources (here’s looking at you Wild at Heart, desperately in need of an updated 4K restoration).
Fortunately Jack’s Back had no HD transfer prior to this, so they had no choice but to do it with modern tech, and it’s clear that Pinewood (the dudes that restored this) handled this task with care and attention. The audio track is the film’s original mono mix rendered as a DTS-HD 2.0 track, and it’s as good as you’re gonna get out of such an old low budget film. It’s presented here accurately without any dropouts, pops, or clicks, and that’s all you could really ask for. Overall, I give major props to Scream Factory for this one, it’s a great disc, and well worth the $14.99 they’re asking for it.
4/5 Clairvoyant Spader Visions
And if you don’t trust me, take their word on it. They’re professionals, eh?
Welcome to Holen’s Halloween Extravaganza year two. This month I’ll being reviewing some spooky stuff leading up to the big day. What day? It’s Halloween! That’s why it’s called Holen’s Halloween Extravaganza. Do try to keep up!!! Today I’ve got an album full of dead men, parties, and a combination of the two. I’m already pissing my pants in fear just typing about it. Oh God, that’s warm.
Hey, I bet you’ve heard a Danny Elfman score. Maybe even a plethora of scores that fit that descriptor. But did you know this dude was the lead singer of rock band Oingo Boingo? You did? Well I’m so sorry that I tried to teach you something new Mr. Smartypants! Or is that Mrs. Smartypants, or Ms. Smartypants? This is an inclusive review. Anyway, in 1985 the Elf Man and company released Dead Man’s Party, their most commercially successful album, and one of their most eclectic. As Chris Farley would say, this is some kickass shit.
For such a commercial album, it sure is stylistically diverse, and incredibly strange. One of the highest compliments you could pay this group is to say that every song sounds like them, but no two songs sound alike. This is a group with many first-rate musicians, including a brass section. How many rock bands have a brass section? What we have on this album is a strange blend of many influences that makes a surprisingly delicious smoothie. Imagine rock, pop, dance music, soul, ‘60s surfer music, circus music, musical theater, and film score sprinkles all seamless blended in a digestible package. You’ve got Dead Man’s Party. You may be thinking to yourself, ‘Gee whiz! These folks sound a lot like Mr. Bungle.’ And you’d be right, as I’m convinced that Mr. Bungle’s entire career is based on the Oingo Boingo song here entitled “No One Lives Forever”.
I mean come on, Patton. Did you really think no one would notice just because you made it more demented and less commercial? Silly Patton. Go sing your Nestles songs. While Mike is off singing about chocolate, allow me to tell you about the topic at hand. This whole album is incredibly consistent, from the paranoid theatrical rock romp “Just Another Day” (a personal favorite), to the get down on the dance floor spooky staple from Back to School “Dead Man’s Party”, to the cowboy ‘80s pop love song “Stay”. This is an album where every song is crammed full of as many ideas as possible, while somehow sticking to a traditional pop format with great melodies from the golden voiced, red headed front-man. I’ve found that listening to normal music directly after this album is incredibly hard, just because normal stuff seems so simplistic in nature after the “everything and the kitchen sink” bombast of Oingo Boingo. Another favorite is “Help Me”, which sounds like U2 fucked The Police and was raised by Motown music from the ‘60s, with just a pinch of church gospel.
None of these contrasting influences are jarring. Elfman has a knack for working them in with a grace and subtlety that throws a veil over his nihilistic dark humor. These songs sound great on the radio, but there’s something off about them, something strange going on underneath the surface, a tension, exuberance. You can hear traces of his future days as a composer here, and they make his ability to compact that talent into a catchy three minute rock song even more impressive. Filler is nowhere to be found, every song is clearly crafted with an incredible amount of care and attention. While not every song is completely to my tastes, I’d say 8.5/9 are winners that make me want to move and groove, cry, sweat, and cower. This is music that plays great in the background, but is so much more rewarding upon attempting to dissect every nuance, every nook and cranny in this jam packed record.
If you’ve ever seen them in concert, or a concert video, you’ll know they throw one hell of a party. So why not make your next party a dead man’s party? Sleep with this CD nestled tight in your arms this holiday season. Happy October all you people. Holen’s back.
I’m not reviewing this movie. I’m off to change clothes. I’ve still got piss in my pants.
This one comes courtesy of Sausagefester “Max the Axe’s Stunt Double”.
Everybody knows that Value Village is the place to go for weird T-shirts. (Aftab Patla!) Max’s Stunt Double was visiting the good ol’ shirt section at VV when he found this amusing Bret Michaels T-shirt. Did you know he was sponsored by Petsmart? Well now you do!
I can’t help but find this shirt funny. Especially if you put a bandana on your pet!
A sequel to Record Store Tales Part 1: Run to the Hills!
GETTING MORE TALE #789: Run 2 the Hills
I still remember the first time I heard Iron Maiden. I actually remember many childhood listening sessions involving Iron Maiden. Some were solo, some were in groups. We could talk as the day is long about how amazing Iron Maiden were in 1985. Are they actually the greatest heavy metal band of all time? Sure, but we don’t need to get into that here.
The two albums with the greatest personal impact in the early days were Piece of Mind and Live After Death. It was those two albums that I owned on vinyl, and therefore had the lyric sheets to examine. Playing them today enables me to use a sort of spiritual time machine. I can transport my consciousness into the body of my 12 year old self and feel what it was like listening to Maiden when it was all new to me.
Iron Maiden had a forbidden quality, unspoken but undeniable. They seemed far, far more dangerous than anything I’d been interested in before. Styx? Michael Jackson? Kids’ stuff. Iron Maiden had historical lyrics, good for educational value, sure. For a young Catholic in the mid-80s, they were definitely adult entertainment. Suddenly, the lyrics I was hearing were dominated by death, something that teachers and parents tried to steer kids away from. Early Maiden is thick with death, like a metal mortuary.
“Fly to live, do or die.”
“To ashes his grave.”
“If you’re gonna die, die with your boots on.”
“You’ll die as you lived in the flash of the blade.”
“Iron Maiden wants you for dead.”
“For the love of living death.”
“Death in life is your ideal.”
“He killed our tribes, he killed our creed.”
“Fought for the splendor, fought to the death.”
“They dropped down dead, 200 men.”
Heavy stuff. Adult frowns could be felt through the walls as we listened to our Iron Maiden albums. At that age, every time I listened to Maiden, or Priest, or Sabbath, a little bit of the Catholic guilt always lurked behind me. “This is bad stuff,” whispered the voice in my head. “Not wholesome. Very dangerous. You’re playing with fire.”
I spent a lot of time with my best friend Bob pouring over the lyrics. He didn’t have Live After Death on LP like I did, only cassette, so my lyric sheet was indispensable. By no measure did we understand all that we were reading, but we picked up enough. We all knew the legend of Icarus, so “Flight of Icarus” was cut and dried. We picked up on a lot of it, even if we didn’t understand every line and verse. It was clear their songs were stories, like mini-movies. And entertaining they were! We had actual discussions about this stuff, in between sessions of arguing about which Maiden member was coolest. (I liked Adrian best. Nobody picked Dave Murray. George Balasz used to say that Dave looked like he was always thinking “I got something dirty on my mind”. The rest of us disagreed.)
I was always mentally prepared for any confrontation with any Catholic teacher who took issue with my choice of listening to Iron Maiden. I gathered some of their more educational lyrics, like “The Trooper”, which I could dissect on a dime. It even taught me a new word — “acrid”. I noted that even in some of the most negative sounding songs, like “Die With Your Boots On”, there was a positive twist. “The truth of all predictions is always in your hands.” We didn’t know what “Die With Your Boots On” was really about (Nostradamus); that one really eluded us. The message that we honed in on was “the future is not set” and nobody is doomed to a particular fate.
One track that I thought the teachers would have objected to the most was “Powerslave”. Lines like “I’m a god, why can’t I live on?” would be considered blasphemous. Later on, after learning some Egyptian history in highschool, the lyrics suddenly made complete sense. The pharoah was considered by his people to be a living god. That’s it! Now the lyrics made sense. The pharoah, in first-person storytelling, approaches death and realizes too late that he will not live forever. Their faith is a lie. He fears death, and after succumbing, he feels pity for his successor. “For he is a man and a god, and he will die too.” It’s quite a poignant tale when taken apart. It would make a fantastic short story (as I tuck the idea away for future expansion).
And “Aces High”? That song was so significant that I wrote an entire chapter about it. When school finally got around to covering the Battle of Britain in the highschool, I already knew the story. I knew it because Iron Maiden were the launching point. My dad took over my World War II education from there. If I was going to be learning history from long-haired-hooligan music, he was going to make sure I knew the whole story. They showed the ensemble film Battle of Britain in class, but for me it was a re-run of “movie night with Dad”.
Maiden passed the lyrical integrity test for a 12 year old. The didn’t sing lovey-dovey nonsense that I couldn’t relate to. Not all the songs could be brilliant, of course. Even then, I knew “Quest for Fire” wasn’t good. “In a time, when dinosaurs walked the Earth…” What!? No! I knew that humans and dinosaurs weren’t contemporary to each other; how come Steve Harris didn’t? One minor misstep. Most importantly, Maiden passed the feel test. The power of the music combined with Bruce Dickinson’s confident, defiant air-raid siren voice. It stirred a boy’s sense of personal strength. You could feel it. The effect was almost like a drug. Almost, but far more nourishing for the soul.
It doesn’t take much to regain those old feelings. The right setting and the right Maiden albums are all it takes. Then I’m running free. Yeah!
“Oh God! What did I just listen to?”– J from Resurrection Songs
EUROPE – “The Final Countdown 2000” (1999 Sony single)
As we edge closer to the start of a new decade, it’s the perfect time to look back at the turn of the millennium, 20 whole years ago. Sony decided that Europe’s “The Final Countdown” would make the ideal anthem for the millennium, and so had it remixed by the guy (Brian Rawling) who did Cher’s “Believe” a year earlier. Joey Tempest was not amused, and tried to find another mixer without success. Drummer Ian Haughland called the finished remix a “disaster”.
The full length remix is the antithesis to rock music. Sped up, with bouncy synth bass and drums, it was obviously calculated for dancing. There are keyboards, weird sounds, and samples that have nothing to do with the song. Of the original recording, Joey’s vocals remain, but the rest sounds completely digital. It goes on, and on. The edit is tolerably shorter, but barely. “The Final Countdown 2000” is an affront to rock music and everything its fans enjoy. It is pure pandering to people who would never have bought a Europe album in the first place. Is that what Sony felt they had to do in order to make it a hit a second time? Imagine if Europe recorded a new version with both guitarists instead. The song was already pop enough to be a hit again on the wave of 80s nostalgia. It didn’t need to be mutilated to fit into a dance remix. It surely would have done better than this (#6 in Sweden, #36 in the UK).
As a consolation prize, this CD single includes a single edit of the original song. All it’s missing is the countdown opening. After hearing the dance version twice, it sounds strangely sluggish (even though it’s not). It’s like taking an offramp from the highway into normal traffic.
AUDIOSLAVE – Audioslave (2002 Sony)
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