Album Review: Obnox - Boogalou Reed

Lamont “Bim” Thomas is a scene stalwart for the generations; you knew him when you were a young buck, shared a joint with him when your band opened for his and introduced him to your girl when you came back to town for a visit. He was around when Lakewood was fringe and he continues to push Cleveland toward artistic Valhalla rather than hot topic wasteland.

From the Bassholes to This Moment in Black History and on to his current project, Obnox, Bim has been a Cleveland punk rock ambassador of the high kind. While not for everyone, Obnox has created a body of work as eclectic as the man himself; a dizzying blend of Funk, Punk, Hip Hop and pure noise. Past records like I’m Still Bleeding are difficult to grasp, challenging listeners to broaden their interpretations of music and crushing the idea of genres, tilting from fuzzed out garage rock to unorthodox Miami bass. It’s all a little much for new ears to take; maybe a hit off that joint will help.

We get a good indication of where Boogalou Reed is headed from the gates; starting with a plodding two minute number called “Wonder Weed”, the long player is already pushing our buttons. That is the point of rowdy rock music after all and Bim shovels attitude down our throats on the brash “Too Punk Shakur”; full of pure Clevo snarl, “Shakur” is a triumph of turbulent rock and roll. The title track is an eerie work of experimentation; like a smoother Self Destruct Button sipping on a wine cooler.

“I don’t care about Maximum Rock n Roll” Bim reflects on “Situation”, trading guitar driven garage rock for east coast hip-hop. It’s blunt music, ride or die meets the nineties Cleveland punk scene.

On what may be the most dissimilar cover of all time, Bim spins “Ohio” around on its axes until there is no note of Crosby, Stills, Nash or Young, only the type of Cleveland weirdness capable exclusively from a man who lived to define what that weirdness was. Boogalou Reed is not a normal record by any stretch of the word unless, of course, you are Lamont "Bim" Thomas because for him it's just another day in the life. 

Album Review - Monster Magnet - Last Patrol

Album Review: Monster Magnet - Last Patrol

It is hard to argue that Dave Wyndof is a visionary; his trippy, spacey, far-out song writing was basically the catalyst for the stoner metal genre. Combining the best elements of the acid rock movement with a hook laden 70s booggie rock influence, Monster Magnet made basement joint smoking music ready for an arena show on Venus. On Last Patrol the band sounds as alien as ever, maybe even prehistoric to those who grew up listening to the band as not much has changed but not altering your vision does not change being a visionary, right?

The record begins with the plodding ‘I Live Behind the Clouds’, a journey into the mind of Wyndorf who is no normal dude. He wails “I stay behind the clouds”, tortured, like a man who saw something he should not have and is living with the consequences. The title track sounds like a missing piece from 2004s stellar Monolithic Baby, banging it’s way to a huge chorus of crushing rhythmic assault. The sonic version 0f taking an adrenaline bong hit.

It’s not all a walk through the smoke shop though, there are some straight misses like the messy Hallelujah where Wyndorf sounds like the worst southern preacher ever born again and the equally bizarre Paradise; a song better fit for a Blind Melon record, mysteriously caught in the mid 1990s.

Mindless Ones brings the band back to Powertrip form, reminding us why we like Monster Magnet…they fucking wail. This is bully music, the stuff the kids smoking behind the bleachers listened to. It is music meant to be blasted from a car stereo on an autumn night on the way to the bonfire.

At their best Monster Magnet is American rock at it’s beefiest but, at rare other times, the band falls flat, like a dated 90s hard rock act. Case in point the acoustic Stay Tuned, perfectly fit for an episode of 120 Minutes, seems out of place here. Last Patrol should have ended with the blazing End of Time which highlights what Monster Magnet does best: space out.

7/10

Album Review - Windhand Soma

Soma is a doom metal classic. Now that we have that out of the way, the backlash can come sweeping in. Let it. Not often in the depressed, cold world of doom does something with this much soul come forth. Sure, the only real test is the test of time but Windhand are at least ahead of the pack.

Richmond has given birth to countless intense metal acts, Municipal Waste, Gwar, Lamb of God to name a few. It’s an artistic city full of youth and energy, yet still near to the poverty and rural brutality that encapsulates much of the south. Windhand summon the sense of urgency and awareness that must be a sixth sense in the region. Summoning nature, darkness and raw power, Soma is a slab of punishing life lesson.

“Orchard” is pure sludge from the get-go; Weedeater would be smoking with pride as the song stumbles into a world of reverb. Dorthia Cottrell makes it known that she is not the typical knucklehead stoner metal singer. It’s almost off putting at first… she is actually singing. Let that sink in, man. Possibly the doomiest band to appear in years has a crooner up front. Her voice shakes the song down to its bare core, leaving an eerie mist floating over the pounding guitar work of Asechiah Bogdan and Garrett Morris.

Windhand finds some rhythm on “Woodbine”, quaking the landscape with distorted rambling and shaking song work. The riff moseys down a dirt road to an empty cabin in the woods, surely we are all dead and this is the soundtrack to the end of times.

Soma is considered a concept-album by the band but that’s the end of their part of the story. Once the needle touches vinyl it becomes the listeners trip; slowly these riffs take you to where they intend to; Windhand is driving this old pick over yonder and they are in no hurry.

Hessians suffering from ADD will cringe and squirm throughout the down right sluggish “Feral Bones”, a crawling, drowsy eight minutes of weariness. Windhand is not forgiving, pounding their will into the ground, building a village of creepy, grief-ridden music.

On “Evergreen”, Soma takes a sudden and stunning turn, changing gears by stripping down to Cottrell and her acoustic guitar creating an entirely new stage of narrative. “Evergreen” is creepy cute, so out of left field that it comes as a shock to hear Cottrell open up so much, breaking away from the typical formula of a metal record. “Boleskine” continues to test the ceiling of our acceptance; a 30 minute crushing production breaking Soma down to it’s bare naked self, a nucleolus of manic distress and despondency that will leave a hole in your soul and a smile on your face.

9/10

Album Review – Ringworm Hammer of the Witch

Album Review – Ringworm Hammer of the Witch

Cleveland, Ohio is a hardcore town. Its river famously went up in flames, temps average ten below during winter and beer is the beverage of choice most mornings. Simply said, to live in Cleveland you have to be tough. Ringworm is the soundtrack to the city, gritty as the streets; full of the rusty plight of the steel mills. Hammer of the Witch (Relapse Records) brutalizes a message of extreme measure, driving home the ethos of their hometown, a better dead than dieing philosophy.

“Dawn of Decay” starts with a stomping barrage of riff, sounding like an army of pouncing Doc Martins; leading to the pained screams of James Bulloch. Bulloch is known by most as the “human furnace” which seems like a handy super power in the winter wasteland of the mid west, but it’s not propane exuding from him rather pure hell fire and brimstone. Better get a tetanus shot for your ears, his voice cuts like rusty barbed wire on the devastating “Bleed”. Savage and raw, it is the perfect compliment to the razor sharp guitar work of Matt Sorg and John Comprix. Their contribution on Hammer sounds down right nostalgic for fans of mid-west hardcore, like Integrity but more brutish and evil as shit…yes, it’s possible and it’s awesome.

“Psychic Vampire” is just gnarly; beyond pissed off metalcore at it’s most heated. Relapse would be smart to hire a priest to follow the band on tour, reading last rites to any kid dumb enough to get into the pit during “vampire”. The crushing double bass drum assault by Danny Zink, punishment enough, will cause someone to dive off a stage this summer. Please, for the love of all that is unholy, send our regards to his mother.

9/10

Review : Night Horse - The Dark Won't Hide You

Man, I forgot that a blog is just as useless as livejournal was if you don't post something on it. Three years was probably a little too long of a period to be conisdered a break.

This is a review of the Night Horse record The Dark Won't Hide You that originally appeared on the blog Chicks With Guns.

Night Horse - The Dark Won't Hide You

You hear about it all of the time: a bunch of dudes meet and bond over a mutual love for bands like Aerosmith and Thin Lizzy. A case of beer later they decide to start not just a band but the greatest rock band there ever was. Of course that is a lofty goal that is never realized but the world has received a lot of above average copy cat bands through this three decade old rite of passage. Night Horse is one of a long list of the aftermath of said passage (count the Answer and Buckcherry among the more notable), carrying on a dusty tradition of solos, bellbottoms and partying.

Sam James Velde stands tall as an old-school rock front man. With no guitar weighing him down Velde is free to prance around like his heroes while trying to emulate everything from Zeppelin to Dangerous Toys. He has the goods too if you still like your rock reeking of 1991; sounding raw, destitute and in heat he summons the best of what is largely a forgotten era in rock.

‘Shine on me’ is a serious rocker. Night Horse sound like a straight forward, no apologies Jackyl cover band… and it sounds all sorts of alright. It’s obvious that this is nothing new (in fact it’s hilariously dated) but that takes nothing away from this booze soaked gem. It rattles and bruises its way into your heart; full of the swagger and black eyes of the first bar band you ever caught wind of.

‘Worried Life Blues’ is a half hearted attempt at a blues session; it ends up going nowhere leaving you wonder why you paid the cover at the door. It’s lost among the arena rock brawlers that make up the rest of this record but it’s not without its own charm. What raucous hair metal band didn’t try their hands at blues rock with their own horrible and embarrassing results?

Night Horse is a surprise within a disappointment. These guys can probably party circles around most bands, they have their hearts and influences in the right place but it sounds dated and not in the traditional stoner rock, Black Sabbath biter sort of way. The world is full of well done Sabbath clones but if it’s southern boogie rock you want it is best to stick to the first Jackyl record.

-Matthew Chernus

Unbiased is the Name of the Game

I wrote a review of the new Tantric record the other day for a blog I contribute to. To say I am not a fan would be an honest statement. What a joke this record was. I may have been a little too brutal in my piece... brutal enough anyway that the editor decided against running it in record time. So I'll just print it here. No record labels are paying for banner ads here anytime soon.

Tantric
Mind Control
Label: Silent Majority

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Who’s on first? Those are classic dilemmas that is the baffling ‘what happens to modern rock when time keeps moving forward?’ Thank Tantric for finally answering this riddle: it just stays the same.

The late nineties were a terrible time for rock music. Everything got muddy and the lines between grunge, rap, metal and soft rock were horribly crossed. It was the sound of the suburbs and it can still be heard coming from pickup trucks pulling out of mini marts all across the American Midwest.

Tantric is one of the survivors but calling them that is just a nice way of calling them the Warrant of the new millennium. Mind Control is purely NASCAR rock; it’s dumb, romantically heavy and packaged for thirty second commercials for pro wrestling or the county fair.

The title track chugs along reminding us of the better memories from this era: a big chorus and race track ready riff straight from the better Filter songs. It’s American rock and roll and that’s a sad thing for our country. ‘Fall to the Ground’ is the same song slowed down to a brisk trot. Another big chorus and another radio dial turned to the classic rock station for a little relief.

‘Kick Back’, ‘Run Out’… I could continue to name song titles but it’s like changing white socks, they are all the same it’s just a lesson in futility.

Maybe this review is harsh but as this country enters a brave new era can we not just let go of this Busch era pickup truck rock? Big songs do not always come with big ideas.

If you like Tantric you might also like: window decals of cartoon characters pissing on car company logos, fishing and Nickleback.

Enter Mr. Chernus

I have often told myself that I would not resort to doing a personal blog. As a writer I do think blogging is a great way to gain a little excersise in your craft not to mention it’s a fine escape from regular daily duties. Of course, I could not restrain myself from joining in the fray and thus, two years ago, I started what has become my baby, Deadtown Cleveland (www.deadtowncleveland.blogspot.com).

Deadtown is an all around celebration of Cleveland: the town I grew up in, the first town I fell in love with and the place that will always be my home. I like to use it to reexamine my former place of residence and write about all of my favorite parts of it be they restaurants, bands or people. For awhile it was also a sociology project where I compilled my thoughts and misadventures in regards to being a Midwesterner in a western world.

But even with the last bit of information in mind, Deadtown was never meant to serve as a personal blog that is subject to my whim and abuse. No, I’ve always thought those blogs to be a little self serving and a tad boring. Ha. Now here I am. But I hope that this won’t be a bunch of complaints or even lots of patting of my own back. Rather I would like it to be some basic shit talking, with the spice being some zombie and wrestling rants and then some altogether indifferent writing.

A little about me: I’m nearing 30 and am entering into the arena of screenwriting with an open mind and an empty one too. I have worked as a freelance music journalist for six years. My foul mouthed work has been published in books, national magazines and alt-weeklies in Cleveland, Detroit, Denver and Los Angeles.

Excuse me...

There’s a god damn ant crawling up my leg as I write this first entry. I hope that by the time this blog is finished that the intruder in question is long, long dead. But for you I wish the best. Only the best for you, my friend.