The Cult Hits Point Blank

The Cult - Choice of Weapon
2012 Cooking Vinyl Limited
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

When it comes to The Cult, you've either fallen amidst the groovy-alt Love gaggle, the AC/DC-kissed Electric camp or the mainstream league of Sonic Temple worshippers.  This band has found little necessitation in answering to any of those dynamic albums, though some eighties party diehards and strip joint habitues are still laying in wait for another sexfunkrawk jam like "Fire Woman" to come along.  Fat chance of that, since The Cult have all but since rebelled against that 1989 commercial juggernaut.

Interesting enough, the tune this band now answers to (at least from the opinion of their enduring fans) is the crunky "Rise" from 2001's Beyond Good and Evil.  You can hear it and read it across message boards and Facebook posts these days.  Following the lukewarm reception cast towards The Cult's 2007 outing Born Into This, the band's listeners come to the propsect of a new album with "Rise" as the standard to meet--and henceforth, beat.  It's like U2 being called upon to outdo "Elevation" instead of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" or Metallica to outslug "Until It Sleeps" instead of "Enter Sandman," or "Master of Puppets" for the old brigade's purposes.

Not every band sustains itself on two core members and manages to stay relevant, yet this year Ian Astbury and Billy Duffy engineer one of the most worthwhile recordings of The Cult's considerable lifespan.  Ushering Born Into This carryovers John Tempesta and Chris Wyse back for the band's ninth full-length, Choice of Weapon, The Cult once again restructures their method of attack.  There's a pleasurable swing amidst the fuming power plays at work here, and the payoffs on Choice of Weapon are superfluous.

You may hear shades of the happy-go-lucky "She Sells Sanctuary" sprinkled about "The Wolf" and you'll detect a nervy tread between sorrow and tranquillity on "Wilderness Now," but make no mistake about Choice of Weapon.  This is one of The Cult's most aggressive and confident albums in their entire catalog.  An automatic third best ranking behind Love and Electric, Choice of Weapon plays to win and it's an instant grab.  Full-frontal tone blasts, harmonic, eco-championing angst and soul-tagging histrionics are the foundation blocks to Choice of Weapon.  Moreover, this album is a proud restoration of the Astbury-Duffy alliance yielding some of the touchiest and ultimately gratifying rock rumbles of the year.

Ian Astbury rides the snake once again and sets his mojo free in a forceful vocal performance you can't help but label iconic.  Astbury's recent dabblings with Japanese distortion lords Boris unchained something cuffed on Born Into This (aside from the held-back production layers on that album), because his pipes are the figurative embodiment of the title Choice of Weapon.  He's shamantistic on "Elemental Light" and his combined roughneck-cavalier guidance through the rocksteady "Honey Like a Knife," "For the Animals" and "Amnesia" is almost unbelievable.  "Amnesia" alone is one of Astbury's finest hours on the mike.  Likewise, his snarling bravado on the fangy "Lucifer" sends shivers from the clavacale down to the tailbone.  Carrying a shivery Morrison hangover on the morose anti-ballad "Life > Death," Astbury reminds us why he was hauled in for The Doors 21st Century and this tune might be the best cut The Doors circa L.A. Woman  never wrote.  "Life > Death" is tormented by the otherworldly shadow of The Lizard King and exquisite in transition.

Billy Duffy will always be adored by contemporaries and followers for his upfront riffs and Choice of Weapon's mix (fielded in chief by Queens of the Stone Age producer Chris Goss and finished by Bob Rock) throws Duffy back into the limelight at the hip of Astbury.  As ever, the two are as synonymous with their performances as their songwriting.  Tempesta and Wyse, far more resplendent on this album than on Born Into This, elevate Astbury and Duffy as any seasoned rhythm section should.  Tempesta throws a clever spin on Flea's flowery bass lines from the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Pretty Little Ditty" towards the end of "Life > Death" and it's to Astbury and Duffy's credit for giving Tempesta the opportunity to improv.  Astbury himsef has credited Tempesta and Wyse for pushing him and Duffy to a new brink and that teetering edginess resounds on Choice of Weapon.

All of it combined spells an album saluting the coolest chops of The Cult's vintage years as interpreted by a wiser collective.  This is a Big 80's album devoid of the glam and nostalgia.  It rocks with a purpose in the here and now on behalf of the planet and in condemnation of the de-calibration of society.  In part, Choice of Weapon wields the piss and vinegar and the polished guitar wizardry that Guns n' Roses purists have been hankering decades for.  The Sonic Temple straights will only be partially satiated here, but Astbury, Duffy, Wyse and Tempesta jack the wattage and stamp the skins from their respective stations for the band's truly devout.  "Rise" is one of The Cult's fiercest songs, but it hardly needed replication.  Nor did "Edie (Ciao, Baby)" or "Sweet Soul Sister" and you can expect none of it on Choice of Weapon.  Seriously, folks, that's a good thing.

Coupled with a four-track compilation from The Cult's 2010 Capsule EPs, Choice of Weapon is a citadel of rock refinement for a fragile period in music appreciation that has all but forgotten what a monster rock album sounds like.  Love begets Electric begets a latter-day rare diamond cut from artists who care more about the edges and grooves than the luster.

The Stoner Opus Returns

Sleep - Dopesmoker reissue
2012 Southern Lord
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

You know the legend of Sleep's Dopesmoker, namely that it is an hour-long haze ride through distorted ostinato.  You're also probably aware Dopesmoker was a four year process, which may stun neophytes and the inhibited, given the singular, perpetual crunk of the album.  It takes a special ear and even more special patience to hang with this album, but if you've been through Boris' Absolutego and Green Carnation's Light of Day, Day of Darkness, you're acclimated to the visionary concept of a sixty-minute contemporary track.  Dopesmoker (and its twin sister Jerusalem), by attrition, is beyond visionary.

Perhaps you're familiar with the fate of Dopesmoker, namely that it was shelved by Sleep's one-time label, London Records after the imprint sunk a fair chunk into it then cried foul when Al Cisneros, Matt Pike and Chris Hakius delivered the most inaccessible album any band could.  Satanic majesties returned to London Records that year.  For certain, Dopesmoker was wrung out of more than one cannibis leaf during the nineties, even if to this writer's ears, it could've been recorded on a stray fishing boat in the Mekong Delta post-Vietnam. 

Dopesmoker is (by modern lexicon) a classifiable doom and stoner epic, but when Matt Pike is allowed to step out of the primary laggard grind of the composition, his soloing is exquisite, far-flung and translucent.  His psychedelic solos are the reward for letting the entire trio hammer down on your ears for so long and be warned, you will experience ringing on the first go-round with this album.  The aquatic bridge (finally appearing around the 45-minute mark) is acidy yet beauteous.  Though it may enchance the overall listening session of Dopesmoker if you're carrying a buzz, the precision of Pike's ghostly strumming, Cisneros' grumbling bass lines and Hakius' restrained rat-a-tats are better savored sober.  Dragged snarling out of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and Saint Vitus' Born Too Late, Sleep found their muse in doom chords and doobies on Dopesmoker.  Yet it takes skillful hands to command a listener's attention with something this massive in scale and Sleep may have been toked up through the entire jaunt, but it's evident pot was inherent to the creative process.  They used it as a construct versus an embellishment.  Indeed, Dopesmoker might not have been the same album without marijuana.

In 1996 when Dopesmoker was first embarked and recorded, metal was still underground in the United States, and stoner music was a cult phenomenon relegated to Kyuss, Orange Goblin, Fu Manchu, Weedeater and Bongzilla.  This was ambitious yet private music Pike and company bravely undertook, particularly when you factor the original backlash handed to Dopesmoker by London.  Just rewards, the album soon took a life of its own thereafter through the metal underground. 

We can thank Josh Homme and Clutch for exposing this low-tuned vibe to a larger audience, and now we can thank Southern Lord for bringing Dopesmoker back to life this year with new artwork and a bonus live track of "Holy Mountain."  Best of all, this reissue of Dopesmoker makes use of audile cleaning technologies to produce the most definitive (by the band's and label's analysis) tone of the album yet heard.  By all means, the crispness of Dopesmoker's audio wash magnifies the hapless vibratum and the swirling inertia Sleep intended to project through analog.  The album remains dirty in execution but far more homogenized in conveyance.  It's perhaps even heavier now than ever before.

I need no further commentary at this point.

Metal Massacre Lives

Christian Mistress - Possession
2012 Relapse Records
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

I'd like to think everybody has a Christian Mistress in their hometown. You know, a retro-minded sludge metal unit that never mentally left the New Wave of British Heavy Metal and L.A. power rock scenes but have stepped forward enough to place a brackish yet charasmatic female roller front and center. Said band is likely to toss out an obligatory Maiden and Heart cover within their repertoire of developing originals. These bands are usually ferreted out by incoming metal bands on tour and presented as endearing warm-ups for ravenous headbangers who still can't get enough of Judas Priest, Omen, Fates Warning, Coven, Saxon, Hallow's Eve and Tygers of Pan Tang.

Where I live, that band is Scarlet Angel. Local favorites who throw it down old school and feature three ladies to one dude including badass mike maven Kim Yates, Scarlet Angel may never penetrate the masses beyond the Delmarva territories (local speak for the central eastern coast), but damn if that band doesn't fight the good fight. If you find them at a venue, you can also count on them approaching you and pimping the band.

Olympia, Washington has Christian Mistress, and this band has struck the fancy of many a metal writer and listener in 2012. Christian Mistress is possibly better than Scarlet Angel or whatever comparable you may have in your nook of the metal community and that's to everyone's good. Christian Mistress awkwardly has become the throwback darlings of the year to this point and for old school metal freaks, the future looks no different than it did in 1982. That's a pleasing proposition for many.

Following up their 2010 full-length debut Agony & Opium, Christian Mistress jacks the amps through analog channels to hedge a vintage metallic clout on Possession that convincingly takes their audience into the days where Metal Blade comps were all the rage. There's no doubt Christian Mistress would've appeared in the Metal Massace series and rubbed elbows with Lee Aaron and Betsy Bitch. Christine Davis is nowhere near over-the-top as her femme-banger predecessors, but cadence-wise, she shaves a masculine alto beneath her cloudy sopranos and metal fans dig that by default. There's an asphalt toughness lurking beneath Davis' feminine swoons which suits Christian Mistress and keeps their throwback mission lofting instead of tumbling.

Barreling might be the best trigger phrase, because Christian Mistress has more than a few tendencies to steamroll Possession with breakout twin axe soloing from Oscar Sparbel and Ryan McClain and abrupt deviations from their mid-tempo verse structures. The clever rhythm shifts and galloping outtros (especially on the near-spectacular "There Is Nowhere" and "Haunted, Haunted") plus the unexpected thrash-happy closer "All Abandon" elevates Possession beyond its inhibited, dirge-filled imitation of past heavy metal glory.

Nostalgia is the main ingredient to Christian Mistress' out-of-nowhere favoritism by the metal press. "Over & Over," "Conviction" and "Black to Gold" will throw old leaguers straight back into their teenage bedrooms, while the dual scorching of Sparbel and McClain bring listeners straight to Iron Maiden's formative years with Paul DiAnno. "Pentagram & Crucifix" is likely to become a cult hit for its title alone, but the writhing chug of the tune is its bigger notable. By the time "Pentagram & Crucifix" is wrapped, if you don't already own some Witchfinder General, you'll be surfing to hunt them down while bobbing along to the remainder of Possession. Of course, the headbanging is countered by an inexplicable jive and shuck on "Black to Gold," which hails as much Southern boogie as it does inflictive power metal. Then Christian Mistress has the good taste to tip their hats to Zeppelin on "There is Nowhere" through its ethereal drag. It thus becomes the perfect set-up to the Maiden-esque crushing titania in the song's second half. Salud...

This is the reason why Christian Mistress have made such an unexpected vault past countless other revisionists. They're on the radar because of Christine Davis, sure, but giving the band as a collective their due, they're A-plus students of their curriculum and it's hard to dismiss them as a throwback novelty. It will be a challenge, however, for Christian Mistress to stay viable over the next few years in their present mindframe, but their never-say-die attitude is precisely what never-say-die headbangers want to hear today...even if it's been presented many times before.

In Space, Nobody Can Hear You Barf

Municipal Waste - The Fatal Feast
2012 Nuclear Blast Records
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Most of us in the metal community were weaned on eighties thrash and hardcore and ultimately the combination of the two. You were either a supporter of crossover or you condemned it. There wasn't much of a gray area to it all back then, unless you stage dove at a Suicidal Tendencies show while wearing a Warrant tee.

Of all those blistering metal-punk crossover acts such as COC (sorry, Corrosion of Conformity will always be known as COC to me, get over it), MDC, DRI, Crumbusckers, Suicidal and Broken Bones, the one band which always seems to be modeled and mimicked these days (outside of Fistful of Metal era Anthrax) is Nuclear Assault. Richmond, Virginia's Municpal Waste at this point (along with Skeletonwitch) might be the best representative to plant the crossover flag down into the retro-thrash battle front. Lineage is certainly the operative word as Municipal Waste could be considered this generation's Nuclear Assault, as well as Tankard and Gang Green. Party thrash they've been called, and certainly there's been a thrash 'n crash motif to their throwback blaze. You're pussy if you haven't pounded at least two pints within one of Municipal Waste's rambunctious two-minute drills, so get chugging, wanker.

All clowning aside, Municipal Waste hasn't so much refined crossover and classic thrash as they've perfected what was once there. Sure, Sodom, Destruction and DRI are still kicking, Tankard and Grave Digger too. Somehow, though, Municipal Waste makes it feel as if moshing never went away; it just took a powder while the genre reinvented itself. There's no proto-math-grind-prog at work in Municipal Waste, just unapologetic speed and a vocalist who throws down the most convincing John Connelly out there. If you're old school, this is gnarly fun if nothing inventive. For newcomers, Municipal Waste is one of the fastest bunch of mofos on the planet.

On their latest album The Fatal Feast, Municipal Waste continues their trend of suds 'n slam, only this time they throw their gonzo act onto the promenade of an alien ship where getting shitfaced isn't how the hosts entertain themselves. Dipshit humans have been swept off of Mother Earth to be served as the main course, and really, that's all you need to know concept-wise about The Fatal Feast.

The rest is a reckless speed zone with moments of hilarity where alien abductors do our planet a favor (in Municipal Waste's eyes) by ridding us of wasteoids, lamewads and "Jesus freaks." Of course, the latter category gets its own tune on The Fatal Feast. If you grew up in the eighties, there's an undeniable hail to the days of Jerry Falwell and hypocritical televangelists ripped up by the likes of Nuclear Assault and Suicidal Tendencies, amongst other speed demons of the day.

In some ways, Municipal Waste pokes fun at themselves and their reputation by having the aliens attempt intervention steps before goring their victims...or so it would seem with "12 Step Program," "Covered in Sick/The Barfer" and "You're Cut Off." Or maybe we shouldn't read into it so deep. The Fatal Feast is about as serious as Wendy O. Williams' Maggots: The Record only without narration and sound effects. Cannibal Corpse is far more brutal in sound and lyric, but Municipal Waste are hardly the slackers they'd purport themselves to be.

The main point is The Fatal Feast has less to do with inebriation and tomfoolery and more to do with flawlessly-processed thrash performed in the old style. Crossover is hardly controversial today as it was in the late eighties since modern punkers and metalheads have very little common ground with which to unite. At least our generation realized we were cut from the same cloth and did something to bridge the sanctions together. Municipal Waste plays their cards as if they stepped out of an Adreanlin OD album and took a sharp right into the noisesome acres of Nuclear Assault's Game Over.

Works for me.

Whattya Listenin' to Wednesday - 5/2/12

Alrightee then, chummos, let's try this again...

Stay tuned for an upcoming blast of Metal Minute picks for May.




Yes - Drama
Yes - Fly From Here
Yes - Songs From Topographic Oceans
Ministry - The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste
Ministry - The Land of Rape and Honey
Shadows Fall - Fire From the Sky
Stormcrow - Enslaved in Darkness
Christian Mistress - Possession
Municipal Waste - The Fatal Feast
Accept - Metal Heart
The Memorials - Delirium
Wilco - Sky Blue Sky
The Flaming Lips - The Soft Bulletin
The Flaming Lips - Hit to Death in the Future Head
The Flaming Lips - Transmissions From the Satellite Heart
Kraftwerk - Radio-Activity
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Murder Ballads
Boris - New Album
Can - Future Days

Al's Not Dead Yet

Ministry - Relapse
2012 13th Planet Records
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

I'm not one to throw stones at Al Jourgensen for putting Ministry to rest in 2008 then coming back four years after. Those of you who support this site know full well I'm subject to my own retreats and returns and you forgive me once I'm back in action. Al had his reasons for shelving Ministry, but the more important matter to address today is if his return should be taken seriously. Well, good news, mutants. Ministry beckons your eardrums and then screams bloody havoc upon them with some of the most agitated industrial metal ever laid down behind the moniker on Relapse.

The first three songs of Relapse are some of the fiercest, zaniest and ultimately finest in Al Jourgensen's noisome career. Certainly the layoff gave him some kinetic itches in his cyberpunk loins as "Ghouldiggers," "Double Tap" and "Freefall" charge up the first fifteen rabies-laden minutes of Relapse. Not that Ministry hasn't been heavy in the past decade-plus, but these three songs alone boast lineage to The Land of Rape and Honey and The Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Taste, yet quicker with more nanosecond-timed focus. Even the thrash blast and the pounding bridge on the mid-tempo cruncher "Kleptocracy" is like a rumbling preamble to something you either consider righteous or a tirade against the inevitable right wing takeover coming down the pike.

It's hard not to think these four venomous cuts as a standalone might've made for an all-time Top 5 EP. "Ghouldiggers" is an epic tirade against the music industry, which lends insight as to why Al first laid down Ministry (aside from health recovery issues) and though it takes two minutes of kvetching before the song kicks into gear, it's still hilarious stuff. The writhing pulse of "Ghouldiggers" is only superceded by its unhinged angst. Dogs are loose and they're pissed from being chained. "Double Tap" and "Freefall" are so frigging fast and precise with their ratchet-hammer digital flogging your brains feel like they've taken an overdose of the "Crope" Al pretend-hawks on the latter tune. Consider "Freefall" and the title track his revisit to "Just One Fix" territory where addictions will break you in half and metal is the only soundtrack loud enough to cram the message into your head. Of course, there will be enough potheads out there who take the "smoke more marijuana" soundbyte loop on the "Relapse" remix as gospel.

It's when Relapse opts out for a maniacal cover of S.O.D.'s "United Forces" when the album turns into a strange pill. The cover is fast...crazy fast, but ultimately unnecessary. It throws in a couple extra chorus hails and extends what was an effective statement of underground unity in its original abbreviation. Tony Campos even gets to noodle with the opening bass bars of S.O.D.'s "Milk" and okay, nyuk nyuk, but a bit of a distraction considering all of the adrenalized lunacy opening Relapse. On a personal note, I prefer Al's chunky rip on Black Sabbath's "Supernaut" under his long-ago side project, 1,000 Homo DJs.

Somewhat dominated by Al's unabashed proseletyzing and political barnstorming, it's a bit of a surprise there wasn't a song titled "Nuge, I Hate You" cropping up on Relapse. Albeit you can probably expect a similar endearment aimed towards Mitt Romney depending on the outcome of the next election. Lending a thundering march to the Occupy Movement on "99 Percenters" and urging his listeners to register and hit the polls this fall (and, not-so-subliminally imploring them to go anti-Republican) on "Git Up Get Out 'n Vote," Al Jourgensen does everything in his power to make this reboot count for something. His point-of-view is either your cup of tea (pun intended) or you're more sympathetic to Uncle Ted's red, white and shotgun creed. At least Ministry throws pistons into their platform and Relapse becomes a genuinely loud affair.

The nutjob lambasting on "Weekend Warrior" is dashed with gonzo moshing segments (as are most of the songs on Relapse, to be honest) you can't help but surrender and bang along. Suffragette City isn't all that pretty, so says Al on "Git Up Get Out 'n Vote," yet the entire bit sounds like it could've been a part of MTV's campaign publicizing years ago. Okay, so Ministry's a bit too evil-sounding for "Rock the Vote," thus there's something disconcerting about Al Jourgensen and company throwing out a PSA. Weird enough, though, it works. The frantic pace of "Git Up Get Out 'n Vote" makes it a near classic, but you get the feeling it'll provoke more slam-dancing (sorry, I'm forver old school) than than actual voter turnout.

Still, Al has a purpose with Relapse and the Killing Joke-flavored "Bloodlust" might be one of the freshest summoning-to-arms finales put down in awhile. Devoid of the "Relapse" remix, it would've been a wholly appropriate closer.

Best of all for Ministry's purposes in 2012, the Who's Who lineup behind Jourgensen is tighter than the group's been since the Psalm 69 days. Tommy Victor you know is money. Tony Campos, who's been all over the metal underground including Static-X and Soulfly...he's money. Rigor Mortis and Revolting Cocks shredder Mike Scaccia...cha ching. Even Sin Quirin (formerly of Society 1) gets his licks in as a recurring member in Ministry and you know Al must be feeling a relapse of a different sort with all of this talent in his stable. Indeed, he must be high on life throwing out an album that tears this much ass. Relapse has a few quirks and it could've maintained the same outrageous fortunes of the first four tracks, but in the end, it sounds off, loud and proud.

Now if Al and Ian MacKaye could find it within themselves to kick Pailhead back into action for another EP, ahhhhhhhh yessssss...

Van of the Dead Blu Ray/DVD Review: Mother's Day 2011

Mother's Day 2011
2012 Anchor Bay Entertainment/Lightower Entertainment
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Once again we have a pathological experiment of the new-is-old-is-new theory in contemporary horror. While recent overhauls of The Thing, Dawn of the Dead and I Spit On Your Grave have come through with surprisingly memorable results, most of the horror remakes of the past eight to ten years have been more than dubious.

The original, straight-outta-Tromaville Mother's Day from 1980 you either consider a craptacular trash classic or straight-up garbage. Either way, that film boasts a sizable cult audience which keeps its insidious legacy alive and of course, has prompted modern horror filmmakers to give it another shot. And, of course, what that spells is less emphasis on the cartoonish nuttiness shadowing the original film's inherent brutality, instead going right for the jugular as the reinvented Mother's Day 2011 does.

Rebecca DeMornay, who will forever be typecast as an ultra-compulsive nutjob who operates within the constructs of nuclear families (or quasi, in this case), takes the helm in the new Mother's Day. Don't expect her to reprise the looney-tunes bewitched couture of Rose Ross from the original film. There is virtually no camp to Mother's Day 2011. Camp, though, was the reason the 1980 film has any kind of staying power three decades beyond its release.

That film was cheap and sloppy with the disgusting premise of a sadistic mother training her barnyard-bred progeny to hold women hostage and then rape them like scenes in a backwoods stage production of Caligula. Yet the movie was freaking hilarious, the setting was creepy, the dilapidated house was a true terror zone and at the time, Mother's Day 1980 ran for broke with a subliminal sock-in-the-puss attack on consumerism. On top of it, you had two dolt brothers constantly needling at one another over their music preferences, i.e. "Punk sucks..." "Disco's stupid..." It took sibling rivalry to an unexpected, funny place and it took some of the shock value out of the awful things that were going to happen to Nancy Hendrickson and her friends.

Aside from incorporating a psychotic mother and the two core brothers, Addley and Ike from the original film, Mother's Day 2011 is by all means its own beast and the film is a beast, make no pretentions otherwise. It's savage, it's gory, it's detailed and prolonged. It's also just another ugly film in a seemingly interminable series of ugly "realistic" horror films designed to get the rocks off of today's generation of bloody thrill seekers. There is no real comic relief to Mother's Day 2011 and this Addley and Ike (Warren Kole and Patrick Flueger) are far more reprehensible than their 1980 predecessors, Billy Ray McQuade and Holdern McGuire. They almost never squabble. What the hell, man? Wasted opportunity to have "Plain White T's sucks..." "Bieber's stupid..."

Moreover, Addley and Ike (Koffin's the last name here instead of Coffin from the original, you know how this generation rolls with cooler-than-you deliberate misspellings) get two other siblings as part of Rebecca DeMornay's kidnappped-from- birth clan, Johnny and Lydia. Forget the woods here. That slasher-in-the-forest motif's been overcooked (if they remake The Burning at this point, I'm hanging it all up) and producer Brett Ratner wisely changes the setting to midwest suburbia. In fact, Mother's Day 2011 bears almost no resemblance to the 1980 film and that is its biggest merit. Ratner and company take the bare fundamentals from Charles and Lloyd Kaufman's (who do show up in cameos in this film) mutated killer family angle and turns the story on the edge of a knife and a shotgun shell.

The cast of this film doubles the original's, which gives director Darren Lynn Bousman the opportunity to stage one chewy slaughter scene after another. Most of the kills here come with juicy gun blast squibs, and after the film starts grinding its abrasive pistons, everything goes berserk. The thing is, a little more oil to keep the movie calibrated might've been in order because the eruptive massacre becomes such a loose cannon the final sequences derail some of the overall believability presented.

The gist this time around has DeMornay's bank robbing sons crash into a house that was once their's, now owned by a young couple grieving the loss of their young son and who are also dealing with infidelity (discovered later in the plot). The third son Johnny has been shot in the side and the boys return to the house they knew, unaware it was foreclosed. A housewarming party for the new owners turns into a gradual pickoff once "Mother" arrives to claim her family and to demand money her sons have forwarded her at the soon-to-be splattered domicile. Unlike the original film, in which Rose Ross keeps her savage brood at arms-length, DeMornay has turned her heathen scum loose upon society for presumed months on end, then summons them back to her side. If DeMornay has any connection to Ross' psychosexual surrogate, it's when she forces one of the characters to give her wounded "son" Johnny is a lap dance.

The film gets nasty in a hurry as Addley and Ike torment the party guests, albeit without the graphic rape segments of the '80 flick. Rape is implied and simulated as sheer head games against their prey and the events devolve so much friend is set upon friend in a dastardly brawl for the Koffins' amusement. While DeMornay sends Ike out with lead character Beth Sohapi (ugh, what a terrible name) to scrape up valuables for them to loot on their way out of the country, the house becomes a veritable hellhole. Threats of mass killing pervade the entire film, particularly in a race against time with a doctor in the house trying to keep Johnny alive--all with murder and torture spraying about him.

That much of Mother's Day 2011 works effectively as a chilling bit of splatter cinema. It would've been enough if this film was the "psychological" terror tale it's been purported to be. In essence, this is a slightly higher budget snuff film. With so many extra characters this time around, however, the viewer has to pay a bit more attention to people who are going to get blasted or mauled. This is nearly a two hour film, which is a bit long and ultimately the plausability over those who survive their misfortunes and those who die becomes a hazy gray area. People you think are goners somehow rematerialize, while Beth and "Mother" have an over-the-top dukeout which isn't quite sellable. I don't want to spoil the ending, but let's just say Beth has been hiding many secrets of her own despite her husband's affair with another character, one of the biggest being the unborn in her belly. You can safely assume what the final scene will be given the set-up of the film. Slick, but too slick.

To her credit, DeMornay plays her hand even shadier than her signature sexy babysitter from the edge role in The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. At this point in DeMornay's career, she carries more sage and she brings a Kathleen Turner-esque (think The Virgin Suicides) nihilism to this film and it's hard to turn away from her. Far more attractive and more calculating than Rose Ross, DeMornay carries this film largely on her shoulders. Why else should we bother to watch, because Mother's Day 2011 is otherwise a sanguinary by-product of the times we live in.

Today's humor is dark if there at all, but it's without humor most of the time. I find the "Dobber" flashback scene in the original Mother's Day goofier than just almost anything in horror since the Kaufman brothers had the moxy to break up their horror tale with Tommy James and the Shondells' "I Think We're Alone Now" overtop that grossly-unrelated side story. It did give us sympathy for those girls, though. Editors today would demand this be cut out since it slips off the pace of the story, but Mother's Day 1980 still wrapped within an hour-and-a-half and its ending was so gonzo it left an impact. We were subtly worried who or what this "Queenie" was until she sprang up in the final frame. Of course, we were laughing so hard that Rose Ross was asphyxiated by an inflatable boob pillow and her sons had been dispatched with a television and liquid Drano that the parting shot of the film was a near shock. I still wince at the wire cutting into the hands as the girls lower one another out of the house in sleeping bags in that old film. It looked real and felt real. Still, it was all so outlandish you didn't get as nauseated as you do scalding water poured down ear canals and scalp torching as you're forced to witness this time around.

2011, the bloody business looks even more on the dime (if you consider that an asset), though Queenie isn't real at all; she's just used by DeMornay's "Mother" as an urban legend to keep her outlaw band in check. When your kids are ravenous hedonists, there's nothing to keep them in check other than death. Audiences today don't give a damn who dies, just so long as they do die so there's something to talk about over the messageboards. That, unfortunately, is what it takes to sell horror today. Frankly, I was much more enthralled by Donnie Yen clocking the arrogant British boxer in Ip Man 2 than waiting for the dirty dogs in this film to meet their maker.

Pyrrho and Epicurus Step Into the 21st Century

Pelican - Ataraxia/Taraxis EP
2012 Southern Lord
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

As ever, those lads in Pelican are busy dudes. Aside from delivering a recent split with These Arms Are Snakes, Pelican gears up for an active April with their upcoming 7-inch vinyl release, "Playing Enemy," due for release on the 21st.

If you're a devout follower of the band, though, you know Pelican's motif has always been to prime their audience with an obligatory kickoff EP to what will be followed by a future full-length. Thus we have Ataraxia/Taraxis, Pelican's four song EP which gives us a somewhat safe and somewhat exploratory peep through the keyhole of their distortion-fed parallax of art metal.

It's a widely shared opinion Pelican refined their craft on 2009's What We All Come to Need and Ataraxia/Taraxis continues the trend with crisp production, tight songwriting, angular mid-tempo shredding and all of the booming chord slides they've perfected at this point. What that means is Ataraxia/Taraxis is a kickback piece with two center cuts of familiarity bookended by two revelatory steps outside the box.

Indicated by the title of this EP, "Ataraxia" and "Taraxis" are the extensive intro and outtros to the meaty and rhythmic middle songs, "Lathe Biosas" and "Parasite Colony." If you'll excuse the blase terminology, the latter two songs are so Pelican-esque you'll either sink and smile in comfort or you'll scratch your chin a bit and hope their next LP takes more of a risk as "Ataraxia" and "Taraxis" does by mingling acoustic paths with sequencers and Moogs.

Then again, consider what's implied by Pelican's titling here. Ataraxia is the Greek term for a lucid, relaxed state of mind, to rid one's self of worry. Certainly this EP carries an epichurial free-float to much of it and this scheme works like a charm. Particularly once the listener is sedated by Pelican's lofty platitudes within the first four minutes of "Taraxis" before they're sucker punched with a choppy and loud deneumont. Quite a brash finish Pelican delivers on this abbreviated ride through their tone-drenched pastures, one which allows for a stopover at a sedate audile lake they've kept mostly in private.

As always, worth the investment of your time. In this case, you either step into Ataraxia/Taraxis without preoccupation and allow Pelican to noodle you along for twenty minutes, or you open this EP's portal and study to your heart's content. Either way, you'll end up at the same destination, which is why Pelican is just that danged smart.

Whattya Listenin' to Wednesday (The Late Night Edition) 4/11/12

Evening, readers! After a full 12 hour shift, I'm pretty far gone for the night, but I know some people have inquired me about resurrecting the Whattya Listenin' to Wednesday segment here at The Metal Minute. If that applies to you, you'd best be participating and kick out your jams right here! I can't promise to do it every week, but we'll let nature dictate.

A new Boris album is due out on the 17th of this month and I'm giddy just thinking about it. This is the best band on the planet outside of Maiden and I'm psyched beyond words for some future Boris mania. Thus my playlist reflects more than just a little love for Wata, Atsuo and Takeshi. Hails forever to the thunder from the east, and I'm not talking about Loudness--still a cool, classic metal band of their time. Boris, though? These cats occupy a different space on this planet than the rest of us.



Boris - Heavy Rocks
Boris - Attention Please
Boris - Pink
Boris - Smile
Boris - Akuma No Uta
Boris - Flood
Boris - The Thing Which Solomon Overlooked
Boris - Amplifier Worship
Boris - Absolutego
Boris With Michio Kurihara - Rainbow
BXI - s/t EP
Sunn O))) & Boris - Altar
The Spittin' Cobras - Year of the Cobra
Emperor - Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk
Accept - Stalingrad
Epica - Requiem for the Indifferent
Pelican - Ataraxia/Taraxis EP
Ufomammut - Oro Opus Primum
Long Distance Calling - Satellite Bay
Kraftwerk - Trans Europe Express
Can - Delay
Can - Future Days
Neu! - s/t
The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
Amy Winehouse - Frank
Roxy Music - s/t

Tornillo Is Here To Stay Awhile, So Just Accept It

Accept - Stalingrad: Brothers In Death
2012 Nuclear Blast Records
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

I consider myself an open-minded individual and don't mind being proven wrong if I suspect something amiss at face value. Still, there are few things I give a genuine pass to, in particular with music. Wolfgang Van Halen gets a pass in place of Michael Anthony on A Different Kind of Truth because Wolfie went the extra mile to prove himself and to prove his sire's faith in him. Blasphemous as it may be to many power metal fans to say, goddammit, I'm giving Mark Tornillo more than just a pass.

For the most part, Accept 2.0 has been well, accepted by the metal community. Face the facts, everybody; Udo Dirkschneider is a legend and he is to Accept what David Lee Roth is to you-know-who. Let me tell you something, though. I've sat down with both Udo and Wolf Hoffmann in recent years and though I cued neither gentleman, there remains an undercurrent of angst expressed by both parties that doesn't look to be resolved anytime soon. Never say never, of course, but in the meantime, Dirkschneider continues to steamroll ahead with U.D.O. while Accept have staged one hell of a comeback in the new millennium. To whom do they owe this rousing resurge?

Mark Tornillo.

Some people still cannot give poor Derrick Green of Sepultura a break despite the fact his stay at the mike well exceeds Max Cavalera's. Sepultura stays relevant in large part because of Green's energy, much as Accept has benefited from the gunslinging enthusiasm of Mark Tornillo. 2010's Blood of the Nations was a wonderful howdy-do for Wolfmann, Tornillo and company but the proving factor Tornillo is no fluke and no scab comes this year with Stalingrad: Brothers in Death.

I'm telling you right now there is no way Accept would sound this urgent and excited with Udo in the band. Tornillo's range, his broader pitches and best of all, his never-say-quit attitude has left a monster imprint upon Accept and if you care about power metal the way it should sound, then cut Tornillo some slack if you haven't already. Accept, for the second album in a row, comes to play on Stalingrad and you might say the subtitle ought to instead be Russian Roulette Redeemed.

Still fast as a shark on "Hung, Drawn and Quartered," "Flash to Bang Time" and "Quick and the Dead," Accept hearken the old days with Stefan Schwarzmann's pounding velocity, Wolfmann and Frank Herman's sparkling guitar solos, low end thunder from Peter Baltes and commanding delivery out of Mark Tornillo's confident pipes. Once in awhile you might catch him nailing some of Udo's high altos, but mostly Tornillo remains his own man and Accept flies alongside him. Watch them play live together if you have further doubts.

Stalingrad is probably best considered a quasi concept album through its banging title song in tandem with the marching "Hellfire," "Shadow Soldiers," "Revolution" and "Against the World." Tornillo growls harmoniously about carrying a fire inside one's heart in the name of freedom (i.e. the Russian Revolution) on "Shadow Soliders." Academics aside, this is as much a message about Accept as a band and where they're at right now. The fire blazes inside their Teutonic (and American) hearts and whereas 1986's Russian Roulette had more than a few shortcomings due to in-house separatism, Stalingrad is expelled from an undivided front professing unity. Hard not to notice the duality at work here. The cool swagger of "Twist of Fate" is full-on declaration this incarnation of Accept is more than comfortable with themselves. You can't teach that kind of camaraderie; it's natural and then fostered.

There are very few moments of serenity on Stalingrad. It's as methodic and loud as its subject matter but hardly cold. As with Blood of the Nations, the songwriting is crisp and memorable. Okay, we likely won't have another "Balls to the Wall" or "Screaming For a Love Bite," but we don't need Accept to re-commercialize. They're damned good as they are and you're not going to find too many competitors who can stand up to the sheer force of "Galley," much less the precise axis tilt of "Flash to Bang Time."

If there's anything left to be said about why Mark Tornillo should or should not be fronting Accept, listen to this album and then go back to Objection Overruled and Russian Roullete. Moments of goodness on each, but it's beyond obvious why Tornillo deserves to stay at the helm of a heavy metal juggernaut hitting stride at the perfect time.

2012 Just MIGHT Be the Year of the Cobra

The Spittin' Cobras - Year of the Cobra
2012 Omega Records
Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Seattle might be considered the doldums capital of the United States, but someone forgot to tell Jules Hodgson that. When he's not shredding for Sascha Konietzko and co-producing KMFDM, Hodgson has an outlet where he can turn his wolves loose. In Seattle, he and The Spittin' Cobras are catching on in a big way. Even The Reverend Horton Heat's taken notice by offering this band some opening gigs. God help those folks coming to those shows, because the Psychobilly Freakout will actually need to compete with his warm-up. Yeah, I'm saying it--and I love the Rev with all my heart--because The Spittin' Cobras are that awesome.

The underhanded problem with metal and hard rock today is the high expectancy heaped its upon artists. It's not enough anymore to just kick ass, which was the founding principle of seventies and eighties-based hard rock and metal. The genres have been escalated to such proficiency levels one almost needs to bring a Juliard degree to the table, thus scrutiny becomes automatic. If you have a metallic sound at all to your vibe, you're under the gun to write progressions of such complexity you'll be a zero or a hero in nanoseconds depending on your pedigree.

That's fine, but seriously, what the hell is wrong with just plugging in and going balls-out with everything you have? What's wrong with stirring your loins to the point of lust behind your instruments and letting that tension sieve out through straightforward, cocks-up belligerence? Rock and roll in the beginning was partially an act of rebellion and partially an act of autoeroticism. This applies to both performers and listeners. Somewhere in today's rock and metal manual, however, that element has been skipped over if not obliquely omitted. The core sentiment of heavy music, people, is to rock.

With lead vocalist Alx Karchevsky bearing shades of Bon Scott (minus the latter's Aussie horndog pub drawl) and a collective dead-eyed focus upon blasting eardrums out with old-fashioned thrash and bar rock, The Spittin' Cobras deliver one of the coolest and loudest albums in quite some time. Year of the Cobra is unpretentious, it's boisterous, it's fast as hell, even at mid-tempo. Nine songs of ass-kicking mania, including a rowdy cover of Rainbow's "Long Live Rock 'n Roll," and the cover is just a well-met decoration, really.

Year of the Cobra is headbanging heaven, just from the blistering mosh rhythms of "Built For Speed," "10,000 Broken Bodies" and "Criminal Mastermind," three of the giddiest thrashfests you'll enjoy in 2012. For certain, Jules Hodgson brings some of KMFDM's faster elements into play on these songs, yet they're still grounded in Van Halen, Motorhead, Nashville Pussy and Rose Tattoo. Hodgson is a freaking maniac all over "Criminal Mastermind," torching both the top and bottom straits of the track. It's hard not to sink into this stuff while going berserk from "Criminal Mastermind's" furious charge.

L.A. Guns at their most menacing is reflected all over "Throw Your Horns," a song that deserves a pump from the fans. Guaranteed The Spittin' Cobras won't have to shamelessly ply and beg for horns from their audiences like everyone else does. It will be a reflexive act because this tune peels the paint along with "Coup D'Etat," "Hooker With a Heart of Gold" and the boomming lead cut, "All the Way." The Spittin' Cobras have not only given Chrome Division a run for the money in the alter-ego throwback sweepstakes; they zip down the final stretch for a hefty win.

Alx Karchevsky threatens to take his listeners all the way and subsequently blow them gone on "All the Way." There was a time when such poser bravado was considered cheesy. Out of this guy's wrangling pipes and backed up by three other men who obviously hold four beers worth of piss inside them whenever they play, there's genuine moxy to such a claim. Indeed, The Spittin' Cobras will blow you away.

So if you're just a bit hung over on tech metal, death metal and black metal, take a break for a moment and step up to Year of the Cobra. Take Alx's invitation to have another beer and have another whiskey while "Last Chance Saloon" spins. It's worth the dumbing down from whatever you're listening to right now. This album will remind you why you got into heavy music in the first place.

Pardon the Interruption

At the request of For Today's record label, with whom I have enjoyed excellent rapport with over the years, I have temporarily removed yesterday's review of the band's forthcoming album, Immortal until the week of its release. Fans of For Today should mark their calendars for May 22nd as the official drop date of Immortal.

The review will return at that point. Until then, stay tuned for more transmissions here at The Metal Minute. Apologies to all for the inconvenience and thanks to everyone who came by the site yesterday. The traffic meter spiked considerably, so your support, as always, is much appreciated.

Ray Is Featured In the "Be Our Guest" Section at Steppin' Out Magazine This Week

This week I'll be plugging my Smashwords short story "John's Dead" in the "Be Our Guest" segment in Steppin' Out magazine.

A special note of gratitude to Dan Lorenzo of Hades, Non-Fiction and The Cursed for hooking this up for me. You rule, brutha!

Seriously? Just Laugh...

From one of my close editor friends, Lisa Root, you can't help busting a gut over this one if you're metal...

"John's Dead," an Ebook by Ray Van Horn, Jr. Now at Smashwords

Now at Smashwords, a young boy's coming-of-age moment in light of the John Lennon assassination: "John's Dead," by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Do you remember where you were the morning of December 9, 1980 when news of the cold-blooded murder of John Lennon brought Beatles fans all over the world to their knees with grief? Ten-year-old Darrin McKenzie wakes up to find his mother sobbing at the kitchen table and the school faculty mourning the death of Lennon. Darrin's young life will take an unexpected turn on this day as another tragedy hits closer to home.

Click here for a digital copy of "John's Dead": John's Dead, by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Get On Your Bad Motorscooter, Ronnie, and Ride...

Photo by Jim Summaria, courtesy of Wikipedia

With another heavy sigh to be cast amongst us survivors, another music legend leaves this plane for the great rock hall perpetua. Ronnie Montrose, a grossly-underrated axe slinger responsible for some of rock music's most gargantuan riffs and slides, has succumbed to his five year battle against prostate cancer.

I suppose my generation and those within us must be feeling shades of our mortality right about now. First Davy Jones, the daydream believin' frontman of The Monkees passed away last week at age 66. Over the weekend, Ronnie Montrose, 64, follows Jones through the final earthbound turnstile, hopefully to take his place next to an always-warm amp where he can plug in and wail away to his soul's content. Though there's virtually nothing in common between Jones and Montrose, that's two heavy blows my generation has to sustain in terms of our identity and to however extent you read it, components of our popular culture. Before Jones and Montrose, we recently lost Whitney Houston and Don Cornelius. For crying out loud, this sucks.

I'm personally not over the loss of Ronnie James Dio. The memory of my interview with Dio still ranks high amongst my professional accomplishments, but more so, my ear canals feel just a shade hollow without Dio's imprint upon them. Fortunately, he left behind a heck of a recorded catalog, as did Ronnie Montrose.

Problem is, Montrose never really achieved the level of recognition he should have. It's almost to the point of crusade where writers and deep rock aficianados have had to take it upon themselves to educate others about Ronnie Montrose's contributions. If we're lucky, folks know Montrose's self-titled band as the launching pad for Sammy Hagar. The Van Halen sect are the ones most in the know about this tidbit and depending on what era of Van Halen they grew up with, the anecdote of Sammy Hagar residing in Montrose is met warmly or with revulsion.

Seriously, though? Hagar and Ronnie Montrose were a lethal combination, especially on the 1973 debut Montrose album, one any rock fan worth his salt ought to own. That's not bravado speaking, it's gospel. "Bad Motor Scoooter," "Rock the Nations," "Space Station #5" and "Rock Candy" are all foundation blocks of hard rock and heavy metal, birthed from a love of Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin, but going one step further. If there's any real connection between Montrose and Van Halen, it's not quite the Hagar bonding agent between them. Montrose was fundamental to the outrageous heaviness of Van Halen in their early years, long before Hagar ever stepped into the latter's realm. Eddie Van Halen owes as much to Ronnie Montrose as he does to Paganini, Bach, Jimmy Page, Link Wray, Ritchie Blackmore and John Lee Hooker. Just as Mick Mars of Motley Crue owes Montrose more than due royalties for liberally borrowing Montrose's grinding outro to "Bad Motor Scootor" as the intro to Motley's "Kickstart My Heart." Tribute may have been Mars' intent, but "Kickstart" became such a massive hit there's an understated angst to be cast against casual rock fans attributing that well-known riff to the wrong originator.

Montrose may not have enjoyed the overt success between his namesake band and nine solo albums, but he was all over the place in the music scene, backing up or laying down contributions to Van Morrison, Edgar Winters, Boz Scaggs, Gary Wright, Kathi McDonald, Kevin Crider, even Herbie Hancock. Let's not overlook his work in the obscure Gamma nor his production achievements with fun in the sun hard rockers Y&T and more extreme metallers Heathen and Wrath. A prime example of Montrose's dexterity, Montrose also produced Mitchell Froom and Jerry Jennings.

Troll through Twitter this very second and you will see an outpouring from seventies and eighties-based rock and metal musicians who are all paying tribute to Montrose and commenting on their time spent around the guy. Cavalier would be the word I'd use to sum up the unified emotions in remembrance by Montrose's past associates. For me, it's just been damned maddening listening to people rave all over Mick Mars for "Kickstart My Heart" ever since the Crue's Dr. Feelgood came out in 1989. Being a rock journalist, you come across like an elitist nobody wants to hear when you set the record straight that orgasmic riff was engineered by Ronnie Montrose first, but it's a statistic worth fighting for, in my opinion. Okay, a number of blues guitarists had a hand in evolving that wailing titania, but Montrose intuitively played it like a growling engine, much like Link Wray figured out that a hard, vibrating twang was the appropriate sound to a street fight in "Rumble."

Even sadder, though, will be the collective question mark dotting people's heads when they see the headline over the web about Ronnie Montrose's passing. That's criminal, but it's also a case of poor marketing and being out of one's place and time. Van Halen made the most of their explosive capabilities and brash stage theatrics and were rewarded for it. Motley were rewarded for the same, plus they gain from the mysticism of how they still manage to walk the earth given the debauchery they've set precedence for. Ronnie Montrose, a mean mutha wielding a savvy collection of distorted cacophony he stitched together to create rock 'n roll heaven. If justice hasn't been served in this world for Ronnie, may the Lord welcome him home with proper fanfare. God is a bigger headbanger than Satan, I guarantee you that.

Cool New Metal Releases For March

Earth - Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light 2
Southern Lord Records
Release Date: Out Now

The Deacon of Drone, Dylan Carlson, returns with the sleepwalking finale to his Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light couplet. This remarkably spooky and soothing installment is abetted by a screeching, wallowy cello courtesy of Lori Goldston. Peaceful in the opening number, "Sigil of Brass," expect Carlson, along with Goldston, Karl Blau and the mistress of skin shambling, Adrienne Davies to take you on another creep-along through a dark and dusty desert trail where even Duane Eddy might fear to tread. When it comes comes to this vibrating, somnambulist vibe, nobody can touch Dylan Carlson and Earth.




King Giant - Dismal Hollow
Path Less Traveled
Release Date: Out Now

Just when you think the entire sludge-doom sect has said all it has to say, up steps King Giant with a demonstrative command of the style, sounding like complete masters within only two albums. Myths and passed-about terror tales within the Appalachian Mountains are the reported inspiration behind Dismal Hollow. While the songs never get beyond mid-tempo, there is still a throbbing punch and a headbanging kick that transcends the implied glut and gloom King Giant overpowers their own amps with. Heavy, heavy, heavy stuff.




Cannibal Corpse - Torture
Metal Blade Records
Release Date: March 13th

As we are in the midst of a subcultural renaissance of zombie worship, it's no surprise Cannibal Corpse are thriving. Moreover, they're growing, at least in their song structure, if not their sicko splattercore lyrics. As indicated on their previous few albums, The Wretched Spawn, Kill and Evisceration Plague, there are only so many grinding triplicate speed zones they can extol in succession without stirring the sinewy stewpot at least a few times. Produced by Hate Eternal's Eric Rutan, Torture is one of Cannibal Corpse's most precise slabs of controlled mayhem in their considerable catalog. Don't let the sophomoric titles "Intestinal Crank," "Followed Home Then Killed" and "Torn Through" deceive you. Cannibal Corpse throws heaps of rock grooves into their blistering thrash on this one, freshening up as much as they slice 'em up. It shouldn't be any surprise Cannibal Corpse sounds so perfectly calibrated, but this band has truly refined their songwriting, even though they were bloody likely watching a marathon of Don't Let Him In, Cyrus: Mind of a Serial Killer and Chromeskull: Laid to Rest 2 while penning Torture.




Exciter - Death Machine
Massacre Records
Release Date: Out Now

Also quite likely watching an equally set of gory films as Cannibal Corpse while working on their 2010 album, Death Machine, are legendary Canadian speed mongers, Exciter. Death Machine, being re-released for a second trip through Masscare Records, will still likely be doomed as far as mass market distribution due to this nervy, disgusto album cover that never would've flown back when they started in the eighties. The good news for their fans, however, is that Exciter is now probably the fastest they've ever been. Death Machine is ruthless, chunky and massive, even though it is all tone-drenched to the point of primitiveness. That seems to be Exciter's objective, though. The songs are beyond immature, the title-repeating choruses are laughable and at times monotonous, but Death Machine is still a riotous, dirty throwback to thrash's (and Exciter's) infancy years when Heavy Metal Maniac ruled the underground. For better or worse, this is how it all sounded when there was such a thing as Cryptic Slaughter, Dream Death, Carnivore and Cyclone alongside Exciter, Exodus and Overkill.




Sigh - In Somniphobia
Candlelight Records
Release Date: March 20th

Japanese black-death-proggers Sigh continue to astonish on their ninth soon-to-be masterpiece, In Somniphobia. While we wait to find out if Gonin-ish has anything left to offer the metal world following their spectacular Naishikyo-Sekai from 2005, Sigh (along with the mighty Boris) prove once again to be the elite metal lords of Japan. If you thought Sigh's genre-splicing Imaginary Soundscape was mind-melding, prepare yourselves. In Somniphobia summons the synthesizers and glam theatrics spread throughout Imaginary Soundscape's skull-crushing speed, but the velocity and the out-there possibilities are uncapped twofold this time around. You will find yourself dizzy from Sigh's courageous genre clashing of everything from fusion jazz to Gregorian chant to (say what?) dreamy waltzes and tangos. All part of the plan as Sigh whirls their listeners through a hellish audile examination of dementia and terrifying dreamscapes. As I've said in the past, Japan (and all of Asia, for that matter) represents the final frontier of metal excavation.

Welcome to the Dream, a Documentary by Rat Skates

When I produced my debut issue of Retaliate digital magazine, I'd sat down with former Overkill drummer Rat Skates, one of my thrash metal heroes I've since become friends with. Rat has recently issued two critically-acclaimed documentaries related to his time spent in the music industry, Get Thrashed and Born in the Basement. Born in the Basement especially delves deep into the foundations of Overkill and how effective the DIY ethos was for Rat and the original lineup of the band. Watch it and learn, folks. This is a blueprint to marching your way up through the underground.

Rat is currently filming a new documentary about the music industry and since we've interviewed together, I've become involved in this project, plus a separate venture Rat and I will be undertaking in the immediate future.

Welcome to the Dream: The Rude Awakening of Stardom is an investigative analysis of truths and realities behind making it in the music industry, as conveyed by Rat's guests, which include members of Lynard Skynard, Twisted Sister, Megadeth, Anvil, Living Colour and former Dream Theater/current Avenged Sevenfold drummer, Mike Portnoy.



While a large portion of Rat's film has been completed, the bottom line to this independent enterprise is, of course, needing a new bottom line to finish the project. Rat's objective to Welcome to the Dream is to serve as a wake-up call and a warning to up-and-coming musicians and artists that the industry should be approached with certain caveats. Nobody who's ever come into music without the proper knowledge has ever not been taken for a ride.

Even with all the Behind the Music specials and deep probing backstage in other documentaries for new artists to consult, the youth of today starting a band still comes in blind. The music industry is seductive, everybody wants to become the next overnight sensation. The internet may serve as a key inside that has previously never been there, however, the unspoken rules are still there and still...well, unspoken. Until now.

Please have a look at my interview with Rat Skates to get deeper into his mindframe behind Welcome to the Dream and then visit his site with a mere click below. If you want to get involved or you know of a financier who would like to help back this project, please contact myself here or through Rat's site. Your support is genuinely appreciated...

Welcome to the Dream website

Please Visit The Crash Pad of Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Greetings, everyone! I've been monitoring the traffic here at The Metal Minute, which continues to receive hundreds of hits each day. That's beyond humbling and I thank every single one of you for your tireless support. Now I invite you to tap an extra click on your mouse or laptop cursor and come by The Crash Pad of Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Topics about music, film, books, writing and other flotsam courtesy of yours truly are posted regularly, so drop in and get cozy. I also keep readers posted on what's new with me and my writing news. Bookmark me, trade links with me, let's boom the new page like you've all graciously done for The Metal Minute! I know you're all there, bless ya, and I want to see your smiling mugs.

If you're an editor and open to some pitching, please drop me a line. I'm still connected to the scene and would love to field some writing or live photo work for you.

In the meantime, click here to jet over to the Crash Pad and bring some Guinness or Smithwicks if you have it:
The Crash Pad of Ray Van Horn, Jr.