The “Rock ‘n’ Roll Farm Report” was a short-lived review column that ran on our Alt.Culture.Guide™ website for almost a year until we closed the site, not due to lack of readers, but from lack of time and money to continue the project. Still, as these columns show, we reviewed a diverse range of music…
AGAINST ALL AUTHORITY – The Restoration Of Chaos & Order
While many of their ideological brethren have fled the punk-rock playground in search of corporate sponsorship, respectability, and a pension plan, Against All Authority has done an admirable job of adhering to its D.I.Y. aesthetic. The Restoration of Chaos & Order doesn’t break any new ground, lyrically or musically, but for Warped Tour kidz whose only exposure to radical politricks comes from The Daily Show, this should hit ‘em like a typhoon.
The disc reveals just enough skankin’ riddims to soften the band’s hardcore punk sound a bit in the face of an unrelenting barrage of blistering guitars and throbbing bass lines, every song displaying honest “rage against the machine.” AAA is unafraid to tackle issues like corporate greed, televised warfare, corrupt politics, and the homogenization of punk with a righteous anger earned by a decade of living right, and a defiance that hasn’t budged an inch in over a decade. “We turn it up ‘cause we like it loud,” indeed. (Hopeless Records)
ARCTIC MONKEYS – Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not
Arctic Monkeys, England’s hot shit simian rockers, were recently picked by UK audiences as the best…British…band…ever. Better than the Beatles, better than the Rolling Stones, better than the Who and the freakin’ Kinks! After listening to Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not tho’, I’d have a hard time placing the band ahead of even the Animals, tell ya the truth. Yeah, the Arctic Monkeys display an undeniable energy and a contagious “devil may care” attitude, and pop/rock workouts like “I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor” and “Riot Van” prove these chimps are no mere loafish cads looking for a good time and a bit o’ notoriety. But in ten years time, if these trendy fops haven’t been lumped together with the brothers Gallagher and Mr. Cocker in the mid-tier ranks of Brit-pop history, I’ll gladly eat my fedora. (Domino Recording Company)
There’s that magic moment on any classic heavy metal disc when the guitar strikes your eardrums like a freakin’ mutant bumblebee, poking a hole in your consciousness. The vocals become just another heavy riff hanging in your thoughts and the drums merge with your own rapid heartbeat. For Demiricous, on their debut disc One (Hellbound), that moments comes ‘round on song three, “Vagrant Idol.” If this toxic narcotic doesn’t blister and peel the skin from your bones and kick yer scrawny, Satan-lovin' ass back to hell, then you just haven’t turned the stereo up loud enough, chuckles! The rest of One (Hellbound) is ruled by a similar vibe, songs like “Repentagram,” “Ironsides” and “Cheat the Leader” serving up enough flame-thrower axework, demonic vocalese and galloping rhythms to put the average listener into a coma (or a rubber room). (Metal Blade Records)
LACUNA COIL – Karmacode
Pipes like Christina Scabbia’s don’t come along but once or twice in a generation, so ‘tis a shame that Italy’s Lacuna Coil has been forced to play second fiddle, stateside, to Evanescence in the great Goth-metal sweepstakes. But while Ms. Lee and company verge on self-destruction due to scandals, betrayals and the benefits of rock stardom, Lacuna Coil has delivered the strongest effort of its career in Karmacode.
Emphasizing more of the progressive elements of their sound and eschewing the pop-metal trappings of bands attempting to woo the mainstream, Lacuna Coil rocks hard on the wings of Scabbia’s incredible vocals. Although the diva’s vox put anything you’ll hear on American Idol to shame, the band’s technically-proficient musicianship, sense of space and theatrics, and its larger-than-life personality creates a sound that sticks in your mind long after the CD’s done playing on the stereo. Fans of Evanescence should trade up to the real deal while anybody that has a hard rock jones would do well to score a fix of Lacuna Coil. (Century Media Records)
None of the current crop o’ revival kiddies trying to relive the boozy glory days of their grandparents can walk the ‘70s-styled cock-rock mambo line like the brothers Mardo. Weaned on mildew-crusted 45s by the likes of T-Rex, Slade, Sabbath, and Zeppelin, the band’s self-titled debut was a brilliant bit o’ retro rock. With this second shot at overnite success, it seems like a committee of advisors, consultants, image-shapers, and other ne’er-do-wells have chopped and screwed, flanged and wah-wah’d away the psyche-drenched booger-rock of Mardo’s debut in favor of a blatant grab at respectability. The money men behind the band smell a quick return on their investment and they’ve brought back producer Les Pierce to make sure that the boys play ball.
It’s the jazzman that fumbles the pill this time out, though, cleaning the band up a little too much, injecting bits-n-pieces of balladry where there should be strutting, funk where there should be mindless riffing, and jazzy licks where there should be, well…more mindless riffing. The New Gun has its moments, tunes like “Lolita Live & Learn” displaying the Mardo of yore, the guys showing more chops than a Kobe chef. Far too often, however, they’re reduced to merely mimicking Bon Scott and AC/DC, or worse yet, Bret Michaels and Poison. It may grab them some airplay, but it sure won’t get them any respect. Better luck next time, boys... (House of Restitution)
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