The SaltyRockz Blog – Motley Crue

RUDE CRÜE-D AND LEWD

Mötley Crüe inadvertently gave me my first taste of the life that lay before me. Back in 1981 I was running my own heavy metal fanzine, Phoenix. It wasn’t particularly good as fanzines go, unoriginal in intent and overly keen to ape the mainstream commercial music press and Sounds magazine in particular. But if Phoenix wasn’t very unique, at least it was heartfelt. I lived and breathed rock music, wanted to share my passion for it with almost evangelical fervour, and was prepared to put all my energies and efforts into a vehicle to get the word out. Not bad for someone of 16, I suppose.

Mötley Crüe’s ‘Too Fast For Love’, their independent début album released on Leathür Records, was the first record I ever got for free. When it arrived at my parents’ house I was amazed and thrilled in equal measure. It seemed totally unreal that someone as far away as Los Angeles had even heard of me and my little magazine. And that they’d thought Phoenix was important enough to want to hunt out a review in it. And it seemed incredibly exciting that people wanted to give me albums at all when I was still in the habit of starving myself at school of a lunchtime so I could use my dinner money to feed my vinyl habit.

If I remember rightly the album had been rave-reviewed in the mainstream music press, but to be honest it could’ve sounded like horse shit and I would still have loved it for the photos alone. On that album sleeve the Crüe looked like Gods from another planet. Lee, Sixx, Mars and Neil had their ‘Hollywood Rent Boy For Sale’ image totally down, and while with the benefit of hindsight you could say that they were kinda like a Manga version of Kiss, at the time I thought they were the most original thing I’d ever clapped eyes on.

Two or three years later and there I was working for Kerrang!, receiving all my records for free and loving it, when I remember seeing some Crüe photos of an altogether different variety. The photographer Ross Halfin had just come back from a stint on the road with the band, who’d quickly moved up the heavy metal food chain and were already firmly ensconced in the megastar bracket. Halfin had buddied up with the band to the point where they didn’t give a monkey’s either what he saw or what he took photographic record of. Or maybe they just didn’t give a shit what anyone saw? Anyway, the photos that were being bandied around the Kerrang! office were of various gurning members of the band, mugging it up for the camera while shagging any number of groupies in any number of locations, usually hotel corridors if I remember right. The photos were hardcore all right, leaving nothing to the imagination as the Crüe went all out to show that they’d fully embraced the sex, drugs and rock’n’roll lifestyle. Remember this was in the pre-Internet days, when hardcore sex wasn’t just two or three clicks away, but this was definitely the real deal!

I wasn’t shocked or appalled, just fascinated by Mötley Crüe’s utter brazenness, their complete lack of respect for conventional patterns of thinking. It’s not that I particularly admired them for their behaviour either, but at least I knew they were ‘for real’. The band’s bad boy, rock’n’roll outlaw reputation and image wasn’t some kind of an act. These photos provided the proof.

Of course the band let it all hang out eventually when The Dirt was published – minus photos, though. The telling of old war stories in graphic detail made many people’s hair curl, but not mine. I’d already seen the photos some 20 years before, after all!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Dee Rocks KDKB’s Desert Invasion

Desert Invasion 5/9/09 – Arizona

Well, it’s the day after…and what a day it was…8 incredible bands lettin’ it fly in the wonderful 100+ degree May heat in Phoenix, AZ…we’ve needed an event here like this in a long time, and hopefully it will evolve into a yearly event. Dee was an incredible host, and despite the blazing temperatures, a great time was had by all. Bang Tango kick-started the festivities, and sounded great…they used some local boys to round out the band, but in no way did that deter from their brand of raunch ‘n roll…

Bulletboys followed, and I almost didn’t recognize Marq Torien – JET BLACK HAIR these days! I can honestly say this about all the bands on the bill, but it sounds like they never stopped recording and touring…great show, even tho they didn’t do ‘Shoot The Preacher Down’…maybe next time, guys…but ‘Smooth Up In Ya’ and ‘Hard As A Rock’ were definitely highlights – they even opened up with a killer version of AC/DC’s ‘Riff Raff’ – killer stuff.

At this time, I must mention the awesome staff at the venue; food, security, medical, law enforcement (I only saw one person being forceably ejected…the officers were personable and clearly not there to give anybody any crap…hats off guys…wait…don’t…the top of your head would be as badly burned as mine is today – but I digress)…and don’t forget the awesome stage hands. The time gap between bands was usually 25-30 minutes, and that’s all…it was a very tightly run event, and congrats to everyone involved. And then there was Trixter…talk about a fun live band. I always considered them to be one of those hair-bands that were more pop-ish, and catered more to girls than ‘real’ headbangers, but my opinion of them changed yesterday…some of the best guitar solos of the day, hands down…how can you not love L.A.Guns? Especially when Tracii Guns plays 2 sets during the day? (yep…he played with Bulletboys too…) – I can’t understand why this band didn’t get more props and success back in the day…great songs, great show…the ‘holy triumvirate’ of ‘One More Reason,’ ‘Ballad Of Jayne,’ and ‘Rip And Tear’ was obviously the crowning point, but their extended ‘Sex Action’ (the song, people…the SONG!) was intense…

I don’t know if the heat was killing the Phoenicians up until that point, but that was when I really saw more active crowd interaction with a band…and if you wanna talk about crowd interaction, then Kix is your band. Do yourselves a favor – if you’ve never seen Kix in concert, make sure you see them when they come to your area…absolutely, definitively, positively one of the best damn live bands I’ve ever seen (I last saw them open for Great White and Tesla when they toured for their ‘Blow My Fuse’ album…can ANYONE hook me up with that cd??? I can’t find it anywhere…I have it on vinyl only…dammit!) – this band just OWNS a stage when they get on it…period. Steve Whiteman is easily in my top 10 as one of the best frontmen in metal. He works a crowd like nobody’s business…even if he DID get beat out in the sing-a-long during ‘Cold Blood’ by no other than his good buddy, Dee Snider!! I’ll refrain from stating what Steve called Dee onstage at this time…! All the songs were there, and even stuff from their first couple of discs (I love their 1st album, and it was cool to hear ‘The Itch’) – the only one missing was ‘She Dropped Me The Bomb’ – and Steve was really the only one bitching about the heat…wimpy east coast rockers!!! (Just kidding, Steve…love you, man!) Just be thankful you weren’t playing in freaking June, when the heat REALLY levels you…Kix is awesome, and you need to check them out live. Now, this was supposed to be a ‘hair band’ weekend, but I noticed a lot of the guys are now sporting the ‘we’re reaching middle age, gotta cut the hair’ look…none more obvious than Firehouse vocalist C.J. Snare – did it make a difference? Hell NO! This guy has got a set of pipes that continue to blow me away…I never got the chance to see Firehouse back in the 80’s, so this was a real treat for me. They were frigging AWESOME. Most of the songs were from the 1st cd (’Helpless’ started off the set, followed by ‘Lover’s Lane’ – cool!!! 2 of the most underrated songs from their 1st..) but, of course, you have to have ‘All She Wrote,’ ‘Don’t Treat Me Bad’ – the set ender – and that ol’ tear jerker ‘Love Of A Lifetime’ – they were phenomenal. (Yeah, I probably spelled that wrong…)

Glad to see that Firehouse (as well as ALL of these bands) are still plowing along…little did I know that Skid Row (and no offense here at all) without Sebastian Bach at the vocal helm would be as ass-kicking as they were last night…oh…my…GOD!!! I’ve loved this band since I heard the first chord of ‘Youth Gone Wild.’ And they didn’t disapoint…they rocked so damn hard that I was getting cuts from the shrapnel flying from the stage…one song after another, the crowd was going absolutely nuts by this time (yeah…a bunch of 40-sometings going nuts…scaaaaary, but true!!! – maybe due in part that the sun was down had something to do with it as well!!!) – this band continues to kick ass, and I really hope something new from them will be recorded…

now, I’m gonna admit MY wimpy-ness here…I left after Skid Row. I love Night Ranger, but I was spent…8+ hours in that heat just got to me…

- Patrick Murphy

The SaltyRockz Blog – Oasis

Oasis come from my home town of Manchester, which means that I can’t help but feel a certain affinity with those Gallagher brothers – that and the fact that we all support Man City. It could also have something to do with the fact that they grew up in Burnage, the Mancunian suburb where my school Manchester Grammar just so happened to be situated. I was, I suppose, one of the so-called ‘posh kids’ being bussed in to the grammar school – all slicked-down hair, bright and shiny skin and highly-recognisable school blazer. What with Noel being only a couple of years younger than me I suspect he could easily have been one of the Burnage crew who’d hang around the area where the school buses left at the end of the day. The idea for the locals was to try to lob various items of hard core at people like me as we ran the gauntlet to try to make the bus. Little did either of us know that we both had – or would develop – a liking for loud guitars. I suspect he would have called me a ‘fookin’ grebo’ for having the audacity to wear an AC/DC badge in the heavily New Wave-oriented Manchester of the late Seventies and early Eighties, though. Never mind, eh? Noel got there in the end!

Oasis have always frustrated the hell out of me. Their first album, ‘Definitely Maybe’, was a classic of wild guitar and snotty, attitudinal posturing, brilliant in both its simplicity and its absolute arrogance. It changed the world for millions of English kids, but truth to tell I was just the wrong side of rebellion for it to be truly earth-shattering in the same way that AC/DC’s ‘Highway To Hell’ had been for me 15 years earlier. No matter. It was and still is a more than worthy addition to any rock fan’s musical armoury.

But since that glorious beginning Oasis’s career has been a patchwork of hit and miss albums. When the songs have been brilliant, then man they’ve been truly brilliant. But Gallagher’s self-proclaimed genius hasn’t always been borne out in the grooves. And while millions of would-be Manc pimp rollers (I’ve lost count of the number of well-spoken middle class music lovers from Wilmslow who suddenly started talking like they’d lived all their life in Moss Side) turn out in their mega thousands to bond whenever there’s an Oasis live show, I can’t help but wish they’d do a bit more for their money. Y’know, put on a show. Jump about a bit. Stop thinking they’re too cool for school.

Oasis are, however, undeniably cool, and any band that has songs like ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Star’, ‘Live Forever’, ‘Wonderwall’ and ‘Stop Crying Your Heart’ out knows the meaning of rocking with soul. Liam says a whole lot of daft things, but that’s what rock frontmen are supposed to do. And the brothers took drugs like they were going out of fashion, which is also what bona fide rock stars are supposed to do. At least until they clean up, go all macrobiotic and head into their rural phase, anyway! Which reminds me of a good wee tale to end on…

The missus and I were hanging around in the backstage area when Oasis were playing Earls Court in their absolute pomp of lunacy, fame and drug-addled bad behaviour many years ago. Clearly there was an absolute blizzard of cocaine doing the rounds. Suddenly some wired weirdo came stumbling out of one of the backstage Portaloos with a look of absolute indignation, nay outrage, on his face. Clearly the shovelling of nose candy up his hooter hadn’t gone particularly well.

“Urghhh,” he spluttered. “It’s disgusting in there. Someone’s done a shit in there!” Clearly it hadn’t occurred to our man with the wrap that, well, you know, Portaloos are kind of there for that purpose. They’re not, in fact, designed solely for the taking of Class A drugs in semi-private! Drugs? They do alter your state of perception, don’t they?!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

The SaltyRockz Blog – UFO

Have I ever told you the one about Philip Mogg and the feather duster? Well, not on this blog, I haven’t. If, however, you happen to have bought the recently re-issued version of UFO’s 1981 hard rock gem ‘The Wild, The Willing And The Innocent’ and have read the sleevenotes, then most likely you’ll already know the tale. If so, please indulge me while we get everyone else up to speed…

I was asked to write the notes for the re-issue last year. My credentials? Loved UFO’s blend of hard rock muscle and melodic finesse since first seeing them on the ‘No Place To Run Tour’ way back in 1980. Had hung with the band a few times over the years, most memorably at Pete Way’s London paid in the early ’80s when all kinds of deviant doings went on. Had been subjected to numerous prank calls from vocalist Mogg claiming to be ‘The Inland Revenue’. Funny guy!

Anyroad, after chatting to all the other members of the band for the sleevenotes, I wheedled a home number for Mogg out of somebody or other. Turns out he lives in Brighton these days. But despite leaving plenty of messages a return call wasn’t forthcoming.

I’d all but given up on getting Mogg to contribute to the notes at all when one day, out of the clear blue sky, the moby rang and there on the end of the invisible line was The Moggster himself.

“I’m so sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you Howard,” he said in the kind of ‘arist-rock-racy’ voice favoured by ’70s musos. “I did have your number on a scrap of paper, but it got lost down the back of the sofa. I just bought myself a new duster. It’s got some sort of long stick on the end and it’s brilliant. Have you seen them?” I admitted that I hadn’t. “Well never mind. Anyway, I was dusting with this new duster and I came across your number again, so here I am.”

And there he was indeed. Phil Mogg. What a great man. What a great vocalist. Not as in ‘I can hit the highest note in the universe’ great. Not as in ‘I’ve got the most powerful rock voice of all time’ great. Indeed, not as in ‘I can always sing in tune’ great either. But when it comes to giving it some emotion, to infusing hard rock music with some real soul, there have been few to match Mogg.

Double live albums were, of course, all the rage in the Seventies and there are some classic releases from the era that deserve a prime place in any rock fan’s collection. Thin Lizzy’s ‘Live And Dangerous’ springs to mind. So does Kiss’s ‘Alive II’ and The Scorps’ ‘Tokyo Tapes’. But if push comes to shove I’d have to say that UFO’s ‘Strangers In The Night’ gets the nod as the cream of the crop. Recorded in the States in 1978 and featuring the talents of ‘Mad Mickey Schenker’ – as every British rock mag referred to the German guitarist at the time, ‘Strangers…’ is quintessentially European, quintessentially ’70s hard rock at its very best, brutally riff-oriented yet still possessed of an ear for melody that seems almost quaint when placed in a modern rock context. Who gives a toss if it’s quaint, though, when songs such as ‘Doctor, Doctor’, ‘Lights Out’ and ‘Too Hot To Handle’ form part of the set that was captured?! Brilliant stuff!

More than 30 years after that classic live set, UFO are still at it today, with a new album – ‘The Visitor’ – due at the end of May. No matter that Phil Mogg now weighs in at an astonishing 61 years old, the band is still more than active. And given the kind of shenanigans they got up to back in the day that’s a triumph in itself.

We here at Saltyrockz couldn’t resist the opportunity of producing a classic ‘Strangers-style’ line-up tee as our own little tribute to one of hard rock’s greatest survivors. And you won’t need a feather duster to find it!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

The SaltyRockz Blog – Bob Dylan

TRYING TO BREATHE THE SAME AIR AS DYLAN

Bob Dylan has been something of a musical obsession for me for 25 years. But the closest I got to touching the hand of Bob was back in March of 2004 in Chicago.

The circumstances under which I almost got to meet the man were not normal and had a lot to do with Jim Callaghan. Not the one-time Labour Party leader. That would have been just too bizarre. But rather a rock and roll security guy of the same name.

A literary agent I was dabbling with at the time had some contacts with Callaghan and there was talk of him wanting a ghost for a warts’n’all autobiography that was in the air. An interesting project, for sure, especially since Callaghan had worked with the Stones for years and years – and when Keith Richards was at his most naughty and hedonistic.

In fact, I was so enthusiastic for the project that I was even prepared to stump up half of the cost of flights to Chicago, where Callaghan was marshalling Dylan’s security doings. The fact that my potential co-worker just so happened to be working with Dylan certainly weighed in my decision to invest some dough in the venture. After all, Bob was playing a number of nights – four, I think – in intimate Chicago theatres; one to two thousand seaters maybe. Gig heaven. If the book idea didn’t come off, then at the very least I’d have the chance to see one of my all-time heroes in truly intimate circumstances on at least two occasions. It was a real Dr. Pepper moment. What’s the worst that could happen?!

I’ve loved Dylan since a hippie lass from Huddersfield introduced me to his music back in university, around 1983. Up to that point I’d not paid the fella any mind. Dylan seemed old, irrelevant, uncool. To a 19-year-old heavy metal fan in the full arrogance of youth he was nothing more than an overly nasal irrelevance. But The Huddersfield Hippy persevered with Dylan’s latest album at the time, ‘Infidels’, and slowly but surely I started to get hooked. ‘Infidels’ is a million miles away from a true Dylan classic, but it did and still does hold a special place in my heart. First loves and all that. Not Huddersfield Hippy. The album.

From ‘Infidels’ I suddenly got the Dylan bug and swiftly backtracked to what I quickly realised was a back catalogue that was utterly immense. First it was ‘Blood On The Tracks’, then it was ‘Highway 61’, then ‘Desire’, then ‘Blonde On Blonde’ and so on and so forth. I started to understand what a scenester Dylan had been, what a hip dude he was, what bloody unbelievable songs he’d written, what social relevance he had. It hadn’t been an instant revelation, but it was a revelation all the same.

Callaghan was canny. He knew he was working something on Bob’s time that might not have been considered kosher, I guess. Though discussing a book with me was hardly like divulging the notoriously secretive Dylan’s innermost thoughts, there was still no backstage pass for HoJo. The first time I met Callaghan was outside the Aragon Ballroom on March 5, with throngs of Dylan fans milling about. His opening gambit was brilliant. ‘Tell me a joke, then…’ Shit. I’ve always been the world’s worst at remembering jokes. Bar none. I utterly blew my opening lines.

If Callaghan had marked me down with a big fat mental cross right there and then, at least he had the good grace not to let it show. In fact, quite the opposite. We buddied up for the next two or three days, me and Jim, meeting for breakfast in diners, chatting in my hotel room, chatting in his hotel room. I suspect I didn’t do myself any favours, though. Much as I was genuinely interested in Jim’s book idea and found the man charming in a roguish kind of way – he truly did have the most amazing stories – I found it utterly impossible not to be thinking about Dylan all the while. Like a true fan. ‘Oh my God, he’s in this very hotel. Wouldn’t it be great if we bumped into him in the lobby? Will Jim take me backstage tonight to introduce me? What will I say? What will he say?’

Of course nothing of the sort happened. While I got the VIP treatment front of house and enjoyed the shows from privileged vantage points sat at the front of the balcony I never got within a country mile of real human contact with His Bobness. Jim Callaghan, bless him, was doing his job – and doing it right.

Witnessing Dylan for two nights in such intimate surroundings was truly awesome, mind. If I hadn’t been so damned jetlagged the first night it would have been even better. But hey, that’s just nitpicking.

I didn’t even get so much as a glimpse of Dylan, actually. I didn’t get so much as a glimpse of the proposed book either. I think Jim changed his mind in the end. I never saw any book appear, at least. But for me, getting that close to Dylan in his natural habitat was a thrill in itself. And above all the whole experience made me realise that I was glad I hadn’t become so jaded by my rock and roll doings over the years as to forget what it feels like to be a real honest-to-goodness fan of a man whose music I still love and admire to this day.

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

The SaltyRockz Blog – HAIR METAL

Round about 1989 I sat in a record company office in Hollywood with Warrant vocalist Jani Lane conducting an interview for Kerrang! magazine. Jani was a top boy, affable and articulate, self-deprecating and funny. The band’s début album, ‘Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich’, was about to be released and we were discussing Warrant’s OTT image of make-up and teased hair that had become pretty much de rigeur for any band wanting to make a splash in the American metal scene. “So Jani,” I asked, deciding I’d put him on the spot. “Would you be prepared to walk down the street in your home town back in Ohio like this?” I liked his response. “Fuck no, man! Are you crazy? If I walked down the street like this I’d get my ass kicked in a second for being a fuckin’ faggot!” For someone trying to make his name in the world of Hair Metal, I appreciated the honesty.

Lane’s refusal to embrace the Glam lifestyle 24/7 certainly didn’t hinder Warrant any. The band went on to have two double platinum albums and three Top 10 hits. Not a bad haul by anyone’s standards. But the truth is, anyone who was prepared to live Hair Metal morning noon and night had more balls than most of us, despite looking like some kind of drag queen gone wrong once they’d emptied the entire contents of their sister’s make-up bag onto their ugly-assed faces every morning. I for one didn’t have the necessary chutzpah to be walking down Birmingham New Street looking like that, so by this time had retreated into the resurgent biker look being rocked by bands like The Cult.

It’s kinda weird now, in our post-grunge world, to imagine just how normal it was for bands to adopt the Hair Metal look back in those giddy days of the 1980s. But for a while there the preening and the posing and the hairspray and the make-up seemed to be the most natural thing in the world to accompany heavy rock music. Look at photos from the time of Mötley Crüe, Guns N’Roses, Ratt, Bon Jovi. Pretty much any rock band you choose felt it was an essential part of rock’n’roll culture to get with the Hair Metal picture.

Grunge, of course, killed Hair Metal stone dead in 1992. It seemed that almost overnight looking like a chick with a dick and playing party rock was the ultimate kiss of death. What had once brought record company A&R men swarming like bees to honey suddenly saw them getting all snooty and claiming that rock music was all about ‘keeping it real’. Some bands cut their losses and quickly cut out the Silvikrin. Remember those early photos of Alice In Chains? All of a sudden we were all pretending we were far too mature to be dressing up like a Heavy Metal Widow Twanky. The trouble is, we all realised too late that Grunge was NO FUN. Some great music, sure. But too introspective, navel-gazing and downright miserable. Grunge never seemed to make anybody happy, whereas Hair Metal couldn’t help but put a smile on your face.

Hair Metal is, of course, making something of a comeback right now. rock’n’roll for the sake of rock’n’roll. It’s dumb and it’s fun. And I for one have no problem in saying I have no problem with it whatsoever. Though I suspect I won’t be breaking out the missus’ make-up bag this time around!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

The SaltyRockz Blog – RUSH

SEWING THE SEEDS OF RUSH

Rush. They were the mainstay of heavy metal sewing circles across the UK in the late ’70s. Seriously. It’s an art that’s long since died out, but back when I first got the rock bug embroidered denim jackets were absolutely de rigeur for the wannabe British rock fan. And if you hadn’t ‘done’ Rush then you were frankly no-one!

How, why and when this phenomenon started I have no idea. Anybody who has a clue, please e-mail. But at the age of 14 the embroidered denim was every bit as much a part of the ritual of gig-going in Britain as the lights and the sounds and the ridiculously tight trousers.

Now doubtless there were thousands upon thousands of patient mums up and down the land working hard to perfect such sewing trickery as required by UFO with their devilish little flashes, that sinewy Led Zep lettering or the rollerball-derived workings of Scorpions. But I’ve heard dark mutterings about gangs of hairy young men (possibly featuring Saltyrockz designer Hunnsy!) meeting in secret hideaways, needle in hand. No, they weren’t shooting heroin. They were embroidering together. Swapping tips on how to make those logos look ‘just so’ on their backs. It all sounds hilarious now, but it was a deadly serious business back then. And the holy grail in these rock’n’roll sewing circles was undoubtedly Rush.

Rush’s logo was a bitch. Like their music, it was complicated and not a little spooky. The all-seeing, overpowering star seemingly looking to overwhelm the naked, defenceless man. What did it all mean? Nobody could figure it. Was it ever-so-slightly homoerotic to be sewing a fella’s butt cheeks onto your own clothing with such care and attention? Nobody was letting on if it was. But one thing was certain. If you didn’t make an absolute pig’s ear of it and could produce an authentic-looking Rush logo for the back of your jacket, then you were most definitely cock of the walk.

Me? I was well jealous of the rockers who’d pulled it off. Did they have super-human powers in their fingers? All I’d managed to sew was a tremendously poor Scorpion in lime green, overly-thick wool that ended up looking like a radioactive blob! Rush was out of the question. I could have bought myself a Rush patch, of course. Saved myself all the bother. But what was the point in that? That was a cop-out that would gain you no respect and risked you being dismissed as an amateur metaller, a poseur and a Johnny-come-lately without the true HM stamina required to stick at the ultimate task in sewing. Where was the glory?

Were Rush themselves blissfully unaware of the Battle of the ’Broidery? Did Alex, Geddy and Neil know of the man hours that were going into this bizarre ritual of fan appreciation? It’d be nice to think that they did, but I suspect they had deeper things on their minds at the time. Like the battle for hearts and minds on Cygnus. And which kimono to wear. But as far as I’m concerned that doesn’t and won’t ever alter the eternal and honoured link between Rush and sewing.

Mind you, it’s so much easier to buy a T-shirt at our age, isn’t it?!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

The SaltyRockz Blog – Anthrax

METAL THRASHING MAD WITH ANTHRAX

One of the most enjoyable side benefits of Saltyrockz has been that it’s given me the opportunity to get back in touch with a bunch of people I knew and worked with back in the Kerrang! and Metal Hammer days. You know how it is. You spend plenty of time with people in bands, then life gets in the way and somehow the trail goes cold. But the joy of email has meant that these last few weeks I’ve been catching up with Anthrax guitarist Scott Ian after far too many years of radio silence.

At one time I was very close to Anthrax. Presumably like just about every other young rock fan in the ’80s it was the dual pincer attack of Anthrax and Metallica that turned me onto Thrash. I remember being given a copy of ‘Armed And Dangerous’ by the band’s manager at the time, the notorious Johnny Z. I was over in the States interviewing another of Z’s acts, Raven, and ended up listening to a pre-release tape (remember tape?) on the plane on the flight back home.

I’d never heard anything like Anthrax before. The riffs were raw and untamed and nastily aggressive, but Joey Belladonna’s vocals were right out of the top drawer. As far as I was concerned the Thrash Metal I’d heard up to that point was let down by the singing. Always enthusiastic, but in the main unburdened by talent. In retrospect maybe I just didn’t understand the concept of truly aggressive vocal delivery. That’s what Steve Perry will do to you! No matter. Anthrax had a sound that I could relate to, but which was still obviously different and hugely exciting. Something new was happening, and alongside Metallica, Anthrax were at the forefront of whatever it was.

I have no clue where I first met Anthrax. That’s what the ’80s will do to you! I do remember, though, that I was charmed by the New York five piece from the start. Drummer Charlie Benante, guitarists Scott Ian and Dan Spitz, bassist Frank Bello and the aforementioned Belladonna made me feel welcome in their camp from the off and I soon seemed to settle into a routine of regular work with them.

While Metallica’s supremely-focused ‘Metal Or Death’ approach to their work understandably gained them respect, I felt more drawn to Anthrax and their more open-minded approach to music. They made no secret of their love of rap and skate culture and were the innovators of the whole ‘Bermuda shorts in metal’ routine. I remember that there was a signed Anthrax skateboard propped up in the Kerrang! office for ever and a day where Charlie had written “I’m going to HoJo’s cool pad”. He never made it, which was probably a good thing since I was living in a shitty bedsit in Birmingham at the time! Luckily for me we ended up having our rendezvous in more exotic places like The Bahamas, where Saltyrockz snapper Ray Palmer and I spent a few days arseing around in the sun while the band worked furiously to try to get the ‘Among The Living’ album finished in time to satisfy a particularly voracious record company. Still, at least we still had some time to hang and frolic on the beach, as Ray’s images for the Kerrang! cover story proved.

Reading back over the piece just now made me realise exactly how exciting and how different Anthrax were at the time. “What do I care if some asshole wants to walk around with fuckin’ women’s clothes hanging off his body and more make-up than my fuckin’ mother,” Scott said to me at a time when Hair Metal was all the rage. “Years from now he’s gonna have to live with that!” True that. All that Scotty has to explain in 2009 is the Bermuda shorts! Mind you, though, 20 years from now he is going to have to answer for that lunatic beard he’s been sporting recently! Wonder if he’s thought that one through, properly!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Metal Band Reviews, Reviews 

The SaltyRockz Blog – Progressive Rock

March 31, 2009

My first encounter with Prog Rock was not a happy one. I must have been about 12, as yet unaware of a whole world of heavy rock that was soon to reveal its charms, yet still conscious that something rocktastic was afoot out there. After all, the last two bands I’d had a real crush on were Slade and Queen. I still remember butchering the sleeve of Queen’s ‘Somebody To Love’ so that I could send the logo off in the post for some company or other to make me an oversized Queen badge. Ah, happy days!

Prog entered my world via my older brother’s schoolbag. Adidas, natch. He piled in through the front door one evening after school and deposited a bunch of bizarre-looking objects on the living room floor. “Look what I’ve got off Andrew Hollingham,” he proudly announced. The portents did not look good. First there was some sort of armadillo-cum-First World War tank artwork affair staring out of one sleeve. And then there was a skull that looked like it had been made into an Egyptian sarcophagus challenging me from another. This was weird. This was definitely not ‘Mama Weer All Crayzee Now’ and sticking your fist with ‘Slade’ scribbled on into the camera.

I remember my brother setting the needle down on one of the pieces of vinyl. I remember my head spinning and a distinct feeling of nausea. This was possibly not the reaction Messrs Emerson, Lake and Palmer were looking for. Then again, though, contrary bastards that they were, maybe they would’ve been delighted to have made a 12-year-old come over all queasy. Keyboards whirled, drums flailed, tunes hid themselves in a cupboard.

“It’s prog,” said my brother. “It’s shit,” I replied trying to be hard, but desperately hoping our mum didn’t hear. Progressive Rock and I had barely shaken hands and already we’d parted on bad terms.

Two years later, though, and things were very different. Trying to introduce someone to prog via ELP is like giving someone absinthe instead of lager for their first drink. Once I’d assimilated Rush, Zeppelin, Genesis, Yes and Purple – the more rocking, the more comprehensible end of the prog spectrum – then it was possible to sample the harder stuff; the ELPs, the Gongs and the Van Der Graaf Generators of this world. Prog and secondary school bum fluff seemed to go together well enough. And actually, I could dig that vibe, dude.

Of course the advent of punk in the UK did tend to put the mockers on hardcore prog. While Zep and Rush managed to avoid some of the fallout because they had the riffs, ELP and Yes were absolutely slaughtered, suddenly labelled as outmoded and irrelevant by people who were telling us X-Ray Spex were the future of rock! Those ‘Tarkus’ and ‘Brain Salad Surgery’ albums went into hiding as far as most of the British music press was concerned… until now!

Jerry Ewing, a legendary figure on the UK rock writing scene, has just edited his first issue of a new Prog magazine from the makers of Classic Rock, where he champions all that is complex of structure, heavy of intent and unashamedly demanding. Prog has been brought back into the light, blinking at how bright it all is! The days of ridicule are over. It’s time to feel the love in the room! Jerry’s done a great job and you should all buy a copy of his magazine, because if you can’t plug your mate’s product in your own blog, where can you plug it?! But regardless of all that, it’s great to see prog getting some profile, because it’s a music that has so many hidden treasures. I for one firmly believe that Rush’s ‘The Temples Of Syrinx’ should feature as part of every 14 year old’s English coursework. Why? Because it’s sheer bloody poetry, that’s why!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Metal Band Reviews, Reviews 

The SaltyRockz Blog – Randy Rhoads

March 26, 2009

On Thursday March 19 I take a couple of quiet minutes out to remember two guitarists who both died on the same day. The first event I have no recollection of. The second I remember only too well.

Paul Francis Kossoff died of drug-related heart problems on a flight from Los Angeles to New York back in 1976 at the age of 25. It’s heartbreaking that the Free guitarist, a kid of immeasurable talent, bowed out at such a staggeringly young age and in what was apparently a desperate state of mind. To those of us who just don’t have the talent to rip out such touching riffs seemingly at will, it seems almost impossible to imagine how a guy who could play like that could have been so deeply unhappy in his life. But the pathos in Kossoff’s demise only serves to make those soul-stirring songs he performed seem even more potent.

Kossoff truly felt the music. You can see it, touch it almost, whenever he appears on screen on the excellent ‘Free Forever’ DVD that was released a couple of years back. That curious beatific look that comes over the greatest rock guitarists when they’re totally lost in the moment was kinda invented by Koss. Halfway between agony and ecstasy, it looked like he was wringing every last drop of emotion out of the very depths of his soul. Anybody who dismisses white boy guitar music as nothing more than fretboard wanking carried out by automatons and robots really needs to get a grip and check out Koss performing, say ‘Ride On Pony’ from the Granada TV show Doin’ Their Thing back in July of 1970. Man, that performance is just dripping with soul. As far as I’m concerned Free’s minimalism, the way their music all but dropped away whenever Koss began a solo, is testament to the fact that even in an art form that’s hardly renowned for its subtlety, less can so very often mean much, much more. Kossoff’s death really was a tragedy, a human loss even above a musical one. And the soon-come Saltyrockz Koss RIP shirt is one I’ll always wear with pride.

I was already writing for Kerrang! when Randall William Rhoads died in a stupid flying accident. Like Kossoff before him, Randy was just 25 and again, like Kossoff, he’d pretty much redefined guitar playing by the time he took his leave. His style was more American than European, almost the polar opposite of Kossoff’s, and was way more dependent on technical ability. But Rhoads always had the savvy to put more depth and emotion into his guitar pyrotechnics than the hundreds, if not thousands, of guitarists who came after him trying to pay homage to his style. Ozzy described Randy’s arrival in Blizzard of Ozz as like “God entering my life”. It’s hyperbole, of course, but only just. Rhoads defined the ’80s metal guitar sound and style, but in stark contrast to many of the genre’s practitioners Randy was by all accounts a gentle and modest soul. That he should die so needlessly in a daft prank that went wrong, buzzing and clipping the band’s tour bus in a light aircraft flown by the band’s driver Andrew Aycock before crashing, makes the loss that much more tragic.

I never met Rhoads. I was still very much the cub reporter on Kerrang! at the time and big time acts like Ozzy were the domain of the established writers. I do remember being in the Kerrang! office when news of the accident came through, though, and nobody could quite believe that such a dumb series of events had actually led to Randy’s death. It just seemed so senseless. Because it was.

By some bizarre cosmic co-incidence two hugely talented players with vastly differing styles met their demise on the same day just six years apart. I think that’s worth a couple of quiet moments of reflection on my part this Thursday. Or maybe more fittingly, a couple of loud ones!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Metal Band Reviews, Reviews 

Review: QUEENSRYCHE – American Soldier

March 26, 2009

QUEENSRYCHE

American Soldier

Suffice it to say, Empire forever altered the course of the mighty Queensryche. While “Silent Lucidity” became an unexpected AOR juggernaut and “Jet City Woman” happened into a favorable positionamongst FM junkies, the title song has more or less become, tempo-wise, a foundation for Queensryche’s later works.

Though fan reaction to Queensyrche’s 2006 sequel to their greatest achievement, Operation Mindcrime II was a mixed bag, life in the ‘Ryche’s now frontier beginning with the tenebrousPromised Land of 1994 has generally been one melancholic journey after another. Thus Geoff Tate’s ambrosial vocals have historically served his band appropriately, particularly as they’ve quietly sought identity following their commercial ascension and decline since the original Mindcrime and Empire.

Tate and Queensryche’s taste for a temporal and sometimes despondent brand of metal on such albums as Q2K, Tribe and Operation Mindcrime II are almost necessary precursors to what transpires this year as Queensryche and the United States enters a political climate shift with the Iraqi conflict finally beginning to simmer down. Said downcast measures lingering within the proverbial “thinking man’s” metal band are essentially prerequisite coming into their latest studio album American Soldier.

Similar to Winger’s IV and more so Filter’s Anthems of the Damned, Queensryche honors the troops laying down their lives overseas rock-style, only in the case of American Soldier, the album was birthed from a series of actual interviews conducted between Geoff Tate and the troops in Iraq. Relayed in soundbytes through the predominantly sorrowful vibe of American Soldier,tangible military voices lend their distant testimony behind anexceptionally emotive Geoff Tate who gallantly breathes life into his war-tagged muse.

The timing of American Soldier is perfect now that presidential roles have been swapped and the country is more concerned with its own recession-strapped welfare than a controversial war torched by many rock groups including Queensryche themselves during the onstage presentation of both Mindcrime albums. All backlash cast towards the junior Bush now takes a rest in deference to the scarred words and experiences of those spilling their blood on the front lines.

Scott Rockenfield lays down a repetitive thread of concussive beat patterns as American Soldier marches nearly without deviation and in occasional somnolence. This is naturally intentional in order to convey the dead soul nature of war. American Soldier is purposely ugly much of the way as Queensryche hoists a lamenting torch on songs such as “A Dead Man’s Words,” “Sliver,” “Man Down!” and “Middle of Hell.”

While American Soldier does serve to inspire as much as cast a depressing light on the horrors of war, the mostly-languid, withering tempo of the album does carry high above its emotionally-decimated muse (who loses friends and comrades at will throughout the album) on songs such as “If I Were King” and “Home Again.”

Geoff Tate turns in a memorable performance (he dumps you right there in the cockpit on “At 30,000 Ft,” for instance) obviously affected by his meetings with actual soldiers. Although American Soldier hardly breaks its slow, sometimes menacing stride, Tate’s graceful pipes along with the sensitive guitar lines of Michael Wilton and guests Kelly Gray and Damon Johnson (as well as Emily Tate’s cryptic response vocals on “Home Again”) leave a dauntless—if not weepy—ambience to anexceptionally daring record.

Perhaps Queensryche remembered just as many Republicans have historically been into their music as well as Democrats and independents, because American Soldier is a thematic about-face and it caters to each sanction equally. Impartial only to the degree Tate doesn’t throw further darts at the former Commander-in-Chief, American Soldier is a frequently elegant bitter pill with purple hearts pinned to every mournful note.

Heavier in sound and in lyrical content than anything they’ve done since Promised Land, Queensryche has created a provocative, if doom-ushered album of textured refinement for a soon-to-be-post-war society that will be haunted by the past eight years in the upcoming months. American Soldier hails the sacrifices made since 9/11 but it also subliminally condemns the motives forcing said forfeitures of life.

QUEENSRYCHE
American Soldier
Label: Rhino Entertainment
Article by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Album Reviews, Reviews 

BILLY SHEEHAN – Holy Cow!

March 16, 2009

Billy Sheehan, Holy Cow! on Mascot Records
by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Now this is one motivated rock record! You have to think after the celestial aeronautics of Billy Sheehan’s 2005 solo album Cosmic Troubadour he worked a little something out of his system. That or he soon after reignited a passion for straightforward rock ‘n roll ala his Mr. Big, David Lee Roth and Talas days because Mr. Happy Fingers himself is absolutely on fire with his current solo project Holy Cow!

As Sheehan is dabbling in prog and funk in his side entity with Tony MacAlpine, Devil’s Slingshot, consider Holy Cow! Sheehan’s kid-at-heart playground just by the steadfast, goodtime feeling on “Dynamic Exhilarator” where he and famed guitarist Paul Gilbert go berserk in each other’s company with Army of Anyone drummer Ray Luzier pounding happily at their sides. “Dynamic Exhilarator” trucks on the heels of its preceding jam, the equally peppy“A Little Bit’l Do It To Ya Ev’ry Time,” the latter of which features leads from ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons.

Even with the midtempo lead track “In a Week Or Two (I’ll Give it Back to You)” and the steady gallop of “A Bloodless Casualty,” Billy Sheehan expounds his talents beyond searing bass licks by writing sharp-hooked rock numbers glossed with steady lead vocals, layered guitars and even some slicked-out harmonica on Holy Cow!. It’s hard not to get excited along with Sheehan on this album with the uptempo jive ‘n rock shuffling on “Just Another Humanoid” or the cheekily-titled punchy tunes “Two People Can Keep a Secret (If One of Them is Dead)” and “She Goes From Cruel to Missionary.” Returning to Sheehan’s private endeavors is Simone Sello(who previously appeared on Sheehan’s 2001 Compression album) on “Two People Can Keep a Secret (If One of Them is Dead).”

Scaling things back to a soulful twitch on “Turning Point,” Sheehan recruits one of hard rock’s most soothing voices, dUg Pinnick of King’s X, who gives the tune loft and essence. When you think about it, the more you listen to Sheehan’s own vocals on this album, they assume their own pinpointed Pinnick vibe, adding extraneous character to his songs you might not’ve expected coming to the table.

Of course, Billy Sheehan holds instrumental clinics with the aforementioned “Dynamic Exhilarator,” his dazzling “Theme From an Imaginary Sci-Fi” (nowhere even close in spirit to Mountain, but a funky enterprise nonetheless), “Sweat On An E String” and the dreamy sway guiding “Swimming Under Water” to the album’s finish line.

You’ve got to hand it to Billy Sheehan. The days of big arena rock are long gone, but not the artisans who were lords of the stage in their time. Simply stated, you can’t tell Billy Sheehan not to make an album as good as this. Were Holy Cow! released around the time of David Lee Roth’s Skyscraper, Sheehan could’ve possibly done his one-time employer in at that point. Holy cow, indeed!

Billy Sheehan
Holy Cow!
Mascot Records
Review by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Album Reviews, Reviews 

The SaltyRockz Blog – The Cult

March 16, 2009

“By the time you guys get your sweaty paws around this epistle, ‘Electric’ will probably be upon you. ‘Electric’, The Cult’s third album, The Cult’s electrifying new album that once and for all blows away certain accusations that continue to linger on much to the band’s distaste. To whit, that they are Goths/Hippies/post-Punk pinheads.” I wrote this back in the spring of 1987 in a four page feature for Kerrang! that rejoiced under the header ‘All You Need is Love’. In a nice touch the word ‘love’ was crossed out in that inimitable style created by the mag’s legendary designer, Steve ‘Krusher’ Joule, to be replaced by the word ‘rock’. The text goes to prove two things. Firstly, that I couldn’t write for toffee. I mean, ‘Epistle’?! Come on! And secondly, that I was right all along about The Cult.

From the first time that I saw the band, sometime back in ’85 in Oxford, when soon-to-be-dead drummer Nigel Preston was still in the band, I’d been in love with The Cult’s new manner of filtering rock through both post punk and psychedelic influences. I’d championed Astbury and Duffy with the fervour of a religious convert because I truly adored the band and thought they had something new and different and vital to offer. And at the age of 23 my love of The Cult’s music and my position at Kerrang! meant it wasn’t long before I came into close contact with them. It was a marriage made in heaven. A writer who wanted to expand his musical horizons and a band that was starting to realise that there was more to life – and more of a career to be had – outside of the UK’s limited and parochial indie scene.

Astbury was an interesting case. Aloof and intense, he wasn’t the kind of guy to sit drinking in the bar with you into the small hours, though judging by the size of him at the end of that band-breaking ‘Electric’ world tour he must have done a fair bit of it on his own. Duffy meanwhile, was the singer’s polar opposite, a fella who simply didn’t do pretence and who was much happier talking about a shared love for Man City than he was about guitar technique. I liked Duffy more than Astbury because I felt more comfortable around him, even though I knew he was a guy who used both who and what he’d got around him with the clear (if unstated) goal of becoming successful and making money. I’d already nicknamed him ‘Billy Business’ even back then! The Cult’s two driving forces were the ultimate odd couple and they didn’t seem all that matey. It looked more like they’d already worked out that mutual need was the best way to keep a band together, rather than adhere to my misplaced belief that you had to be the last gang in town for rock to work.

Of course ‘Electric’ was The Cult’s breakthrough moment, the album that took them out of the ‘weird Englishmen dabbling with guitars’ bracket and into the realms of America and the first foothold in the lucrative world of arena rock. Time and album sales proved that ‘Electric’ producer Rick Rubin knew what he was doing. Despite my protestations to the contrary in that Kerrang! article, though, deep down I was less than convinced about this Spinal Tap-style ‘hope you like our new direction’.

‘Electric’ was fun and it was undoubtedly rock, but its blueprint of ‘AC/DC thinned out’ just didn’t excite me in the same way as the earlier ‘Electric’ recordings with producer Steve Brown that had updated the band’s sound to be more riff-heavy and sinewy, but still retained plenty of ‘Essence Of Cult’. “We learnt to really look at ourselves and we learnt through Rick who it is that we really are,” Duffy told me in that interview. Maybe. Or maybe Rubin had simply explained to The Cult what it took to break America. Arena rock with easy-to-understand riffs, rock hair and rock clothes.

But whatever, I still loved The Cult. Loved their embracing of rock culture. Loved their swagger at a time when rock music only existed in a ghetto. They turned loads of British people with their heads too far up their own arses on to the power of rock. And loads of blinkered heavy metal fans onto a whole world of new. I can still remember Astbury playing me Soundgarden and Lenny Kravitz tracks on the tour bus way, way before they were household names. Astbury an early adopter of Seattle and grunge. Imagine that! So for me ‘Electric’ is still worth its place in the canon of work from a band I can’t help but hold very dear. But truth to tell for me it wasn’t until the following album, ‘Sonic Temple’, that the band really found their feet, their sound and their true moment in rock history.

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Metal Band Reviews, Reviews 

The SaltyRockz Blog – Bay Area Crunch

February 23, 2009

I’ve got a pal, Jim Parsons, who used to be Vanessa Warwick’s sidekick on MTV’s legendary metal show Headbanger’s Ball – or Ballbanger’s Head, as it was affectionately known. Now Jim and I go back a long way. We used to be gumbies together in North London around 1990 when I first moved down to the smoke. He’s a lovely man and he’s now a big shot music TV producer, working with the likes of Jimmy Page, Megdeth, Metallica and… er.. Morrissey. Well, you can’t win ’em all, can you?!

Now just this week I received an e-mail from a guy who was once in the metal band Dearly Beheaded, who wanted to apologise to me for having got into bed with me and my girlfriend. ‘What’s this got to do with Jim?’ I hear you cry. Well, just hear me out…

“We’d been out on the town to a gig – I think it may have been Mindfunk,” yer man wrote. “And we’d been drinking! I awoke in the morning in your bed, naked, between you and Julie. I’d been sleepwalking and for some reason I crawled into bed between the two of you. Nice introduction to someone I’d only met for the first time the night before!” A marvelous story, clearly. Except that it had nothing whatesoever to do with me – and everything to do with Jim.

Somehow our befuddled friend had managed to confuse me with Jim. And while I’d never had anyone sleepwalk in-between me and a ladyfriend in bed, Jim quickly confirmed that he most definitely had been the victim of such nocturnal shenanigans. Now the reason why I’m telling you all this is threefold…

1) It’s a really funny story.

2) It allows me to tell you about my favourite ever Jim-ism. “I’m not ready for ‘nu-metal’. I haven’t finished with the old metal yet.”

3) I get to recount another salutary tale about the dangers of mixing yer drink with yer metal.

Jim is one of the world’s biggest fans of Bay Area Crunch. You know, the sub-genre of thrash that was invented to define the San Francisco scene as headed up by Metallica at the start of the ’80s. In fact, Jim’s eyes still glaze over in blissful reverie whenever Death Angel or Vio-lence are mentioned, which I’m sure doesn’t happen all that often in your house. No matter. I can’t lay claim to be anywhere near as much of a BAC man as Mr. Parsons. But I can recount a decent little tale of heading up to Sweden to see BAC exponents Exodus promoting their 1987 album ‘Pleasures Of The Flesh’, including such church anthems as ‘Deranged’, ‘Parasite’ and ‘Seeds Of Hate’.

Kerrang! had asked me to fly northwards for a spot of ‘frashing’ live review action with the ’Dus, which I was happy to do despite knowing that my meagre Kerrang! fee would barely cover the extortionate cost of a couple of beers in the inflation-tastic Swedish venue. I arrived, if memory serves, at some ludicrously early time and was expected to kick my heels for a few hours while the band got their shit together. Fair enough; it wasn’t exactly the first time I’d wandered around an empty venue. Yet by the time the doors were about to open I was utterly, utterly bored and more than ready to rock.

As it turned out, though, by far the most entertaining part of the evening was just about to happen. With the doors finally flung open the local rock fans came piling in at a rate of knots. Their intention was clearly to make their way up to the barriers at the front of the standing-only venue, the better to rock out right in front of the band. A good plan, ’n’ all…

Unfortunately for three particular guys, however, the masterplan had already started to unravel. This trio were pissed beyond all reason, unable to walk in a straight line and in imminent danger of collapse. Presumably they’d been necking some sort of local moonshine in a bid to avoid the astronomical prices of the legal gear. Well, at least that part of the plan worked. With their arms slung round each other -presumably for better balance – the three lads lurched across the hall. Unable to locate either the stage or the crash barriers, however, they wobbled over to the far side of the building where they met the wall with a force greater than they might have imagined. The impact of wobbly flesh on solid concrete was something to behold. The wall, it must be said, came off way better than the flesh and our three intrepid booze fiends simply crumpled in a heap on the floor.

I watched the whole scenario unfold with something approaching morbid curiosity, then promptly forgot about the tanked-up trio and got on with checking out Exodus.

A couple of hours of ear-bleeding excess later, the house lights came up and the metal masses started to exit the hall. Since I was getting a lift back to the hotel with somebody or other associated with the gig I simply hung back and watched the place empty. And then to my absolute, utter astonishment, I suddenly saw the same three guys, still slumped to the floor in the exact same position I’d seen them crash out in before the gig had even started. I was stunned. These loonies had obviously bought tickets for the gig but had then slept like babies throughout the entire performance due to alcoholic overindulgence. I don’t know what amazed me the most. Was it the waste of the ticket money? Or was it the fact that they’d slept their way through two hours of thunderously, ridiculously, wildly over-the-top Bay Area Crunching?!

The change in sonic equilibrium must have had some kind of disconcerting effect on our boys, as within three or four minutes of the house lights coming up they’d come round, hauled themselves to their feet and high-fived their way out of the venue like they’d just witnessed the greatest gig of their lives! Incredible!

No doubt these guys went into college or work the next day and recounted tales of heavy metal thunder with great glee, despite not having heard a single note of music!

For once – and, dare I suggest, once only – the Bay Area had failed to provide the requisite Crunch! Jim Parsons is horrified to this very day!!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Metal Band Reviews, Reviews 

The SaltyRockz Blog – Anvil

February 16, 2009

There is nothing left in this world that will surprise me any more. Nothing. How do I know this? Well, my football team Manchester City has become the richest club in the world overnight. That dishevelled donut Boris Johnson is the most powerful man in London. And Steve Kudlow is a superstar.

No, honestly, he is. Just because his name might not be immediately familiar to you makes no odds. So if Steve Kudlow isn’t ringing any bells, try Lips. Or Canadian heavy metal band Anvil. Or the film ‘Anvil, The Story Of Anvil’. There you go. You got it now. Steve Kudlow is the star of the cult film of the last 12 months, the tale of unbreakable friendship between two guys whose love of rock and roll is only matched by their love for each other – and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

I haven’t seen the movie yet. Give me a break! It’s only released in the UK on February 20. But I’ve seen plenty of clips on t’Internet and have read enough reviews to know that the buzz on the movie is immense.

I’ve been asking myself where I went wrong on this one. After all, the film’s director Sacha Gervasi was a young gumby in England just like me back in the early ‘80s. Just like me, Sacha hung with Anvil, though in his defence it sounds like he did a lot more humping of cabs than I did. And just like me he became friendly with Lips. Dammit, why the frak couldn’t I have become the award-winning director of a film about Anvil?!

Possibly, just possibly where I went wrong was in failing to write the blockbuster movie ‘The Terminal’ for director Steven Spielberg and star Tom Hanks. Sacha did that, which doubtless opened a few doors for him to make a brilliant film about Anvil. I guess I was just too busy headbanging…

But never mind. I can easily forgive Gervasi his stroke of good fortune for one particularly good reason. His success means that Lips can finally get his just desserts after a life spent pounding the outer perimeters of metal.

Anyone with half a brain can see that Lips is truly, madly and deeply for real. The loveable old fool never gave up and never laid down his guitar – though I do think the codpiece he used to wear back in ’83 might have rusted up by now. But I also know that Lips is for real simply because of the immense kindness he showed me when I visited North America for the very first time back in 1983.

I was 19, at the outset of my career as a rock writer, and desperately wanted to visit the continent where most all of my heroes hung out. So much so that I forked out whatever the cost of the flight was myself from my meagre Kerrang! freelance wages and plotted a trip with a pal to New York (where I stayed with Riot manager Billy Arnell), then up to Toronto to see rock and roll’s homeland first hand. Lips had promised we could stay at his flat up there in Canada – and he was absolutely as good as his word. His hospitality was first class, he couldn’t do enough for the two of us Limey fools, he never got the ache when we’d drunk or smoked too much of his stuff and then turned green in his living room and he even saved me from getting banged up the slammer, frankly a painful experience at any age.

While staying chez Kudlow and in a fit of extreme rock and roll behaviour I’d just been out to the shops. Well OK, that wasn’t very rock and roll at all. So in a desperate attempt to claw back some cred I decided to grab a cool one to swig back direct from the can on the way back to Lips’ place.

I might have thought I was worldly-wise. In fact, I was as spiritually green as I’d been physically green up there in the apartment. Just as I stepped back into the yard outside Lips’ apartment the air was filled with the sound of sirens wailing as two cop cars screeched into view. Police officers spewed out of both vehicles and, like some low-rent version of Starsky And Hutch, I suddenly found myself pinned to the wall by two of Toronto’s finest. Frankly, I nearly pooped my pants. What the hell was happening? What in God’s name had I done?

Fortunately Lips was quick to take charge, calmly apologising to the officers and telling them that I no menace to society, but rather his dumb English friend who honestly and truly didn’t know that drinking on the streets of Toronto was an offence. “Next time I’ll make sure he bags it up, sir,” said Lips. Given his ‘good citizen’ demeanour, is it any wonder the police were immediately pacified and beat the retreat. I, meanwhile, suspect I beat a retreat of my own – to the bathroom and a quick change of pants!

Do you think it’s because Lips played the Good Samaritan that day that he now bestrides the world like a celluloid Colossus of heavy metal? Nah, I doubt it too. But to me Lips will forever be the guy who saved my ass in Canada all those years ago. And there’s nobody in the world happier than me watching him enjoying his day in the sun!

Want to email me about this blog? Get in touch at hojo@saltyrockz.com

HoJo rocked as a top journalist on legendary UK metal magazine
Kerrang! and now runs a way-cool rock T-shirt site at www.saltyrockz.com.

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Metal Band Reviews, Reviews 

Anvil! The Story of Anvil

February 16, 2009

From the Sundance Film Festival program:
“At 14, Toronto school friends Steve “Lips” Kudlow and Robb Reiner made a pact to rock together forever. Their band, Anvil, went on to become the “demigods of Canadian metal,” releasing one of the heaviest albums in metal history, 1982’s Metal on Metal. The album influenced a musical generation, including Metallica, Slayer, and Anthrax, that went on to sell millions of records. But Anvil’s career took a different path – straight to obscurity.

Director Sacha Gervasi has concocted a wonderful and often hilarious account of Anvil’s last-ditch quest for elusive fame and fortune. His ingenious filmmaking may first lead you to think this a mockumentary, but it isn’t. Gervasi joined the legendary heavy-metal band as a roadie for a tour of Canadian hockey arenas, so he has intimate insight into the members’ eccentricities. It’s fascinating to see the reality of their day-to-day lives as they struggle to make ends meet, take a misguided European tour, and engage in antics on the road – which is not always lined with fans. Gervasi even finds a softer center to this raucous film, introducing us to band members’ ever-supportive, but long-suffering, families.

At its core, Anvil! The True Story of Anvil is a timeless tale of survival and the unadulterated passion it takes to follow your dream, year after year. Anvil rocks – it has no other choice.”

John Cooper
Director of Programming
Sundance Film Festival

Written by Headbanger · Filed Under Concert Reviews, Reviews 

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