Outre Limits (And Then some)
Featured Album
The Concept Album, enshrined in such epic meisterworks as Tommy and The Wall, not to mention Styx’s Kilroy Was Here, is often given short (about the only thing short about them) shrift in the instant d-load of a favored track. But ever since the invention of Long Playing discs allowed rock musicians the same four dimensions enjoyed by classical symphonists and operatic composers and jazz improvisers, there will be artists who think on a scale of grandeur, who see not the short story of a pop song, but a novel — nay, a mini-series, an immersion in characterization and performance carried to the nth degree.
Rock that dwells on the harder edge of the decibel spectrum has always taken well to these saga-esque aspirations. With suitable bombast and cataclysm, Helloween‘s mid-eighties Keeper of the Seven Keys duology dabbled in cosmic warfare between forces of dark and “seers” of light; but that was apocalypse then. Today, awaiting the final revelations of Saviour Machine, much as time ticks down to the approaching Judgmental day of rock and reckoning, we have The Legend, of which Parts I and II here await the rapture.
With a Bowie-esque quaver in Eric Clayton’s voice (not surprising since the group’s name was derived from a song on David’s Man Who Sold The World), Saviour Machine formed in California in the early nineties. Though a nominally “Christian” band, their controversial stage presentation and gothique trappings placed them in, well, limbo, at least within the ranks of the salvation armed. Unrepentant and undeterred, Clayton has pursued his End of Days through the proselytizing prism of The Legend, a construct akin to the determination that built the Tower of Babel. Though the final installment of the trilogy, promised to be deliveranced on the seventh seal of July 7, 2007, has been delayed due to Eric’s perfectionism and ill health, the first two chapters are rife with Biblical razzle-dazzle amidst arrangements that tend toward the grandiloquent. You know the plot, and the titles are Good Bookmarks to where your pilgrimage will guide you in this ever-unfolding World War III narrative of clashing metaphysical empires (“The Sword of Islam,” “The Invasion of Israel”), mankind’s soul hanging in the balance.
Or you can just hit the bong. Sleep did exactly that on their combined tribute to Black Sabbath and reefer madness, the hour-plus behemoth that is Jerusalem, where, like the encirclement of Tolkien, there is One Riff to Rule Them All. Stretching a single cut past the hour mark, this was not the album their record company expected in 1995 when the group were signed on the strength of their second release, Holy Mountain. But what Man has grown, let no God put asunder. The cumulative blunt force trauma of this paean to da weed as it stretches and sinews time is a remarkable immersion into the slipstream of universal relativity. And though there is endless discussion among E=MC2 types about whether this version or the re-edited Dopesmoker is definitive, truly it’s the difference between Northern Lights and Skunk.
To top Jerusalem would have seemed beside the point, and Sleep promptly sharded into its components. Guitarist Matt Pike moved off into High On Fire; while bassist Al Cisneros and drummer Christ Hakius became OM. OM’s latest (though Hakius has recently left the “group”), Pilgrimage, does not dilute their given instrumental texture with such readymades as guitars. The Tibetanesque chanting overlying these songs-like-mantras are breathed with a Himalayan expanse, the glacial grind of the bass like the bottomless and guttural rumble of throat singing, oddly transcendental in its sheer weight and inevitability.
The Hidden Hand come closest to a traditional song cycle with their newly issued Resurrection of Whiskey Foote. The band, led by guitarist Scott “Wino” Weinrich, was formed from the detritus of Spirit Caravan, and showed their heavy mettle with 2003′s Divine Propaganda. Whiskey Foote’s tale is centered around the title character, who wanders around an America newly emancipated from British colonial rule, as if a character in a video game. The narrative never gets in the way of the monstro-licks and Weinrich’s fretwork has roots in such grand melodic rockers as Golden Earring (“Majestic Presence”) and the James Gang, as well as his own innate sense of power-roll (“Lightning Hill”), while the rhythm section of Bruce Falkinburg and Evan Tanner gives good bash.
One of my all-time favorite guitar solos can be found within Connie Francis ’1959 hit, “Lipstick On Your Collar.” I’ve always been curious to learn who put together this lyrical, perfectly constructed and articulated lead break, but despite research in MGM catalogues, I was never able to find the musician behind the frets. Recently, perusing a Connie reissue, I discovered the virtuoso to be George Barnes, a prolific session guitarist who appeared on literally thousands of records, backing such as Frank Sinatra, Patti Page, and numerous rock and rollers.
Born in 1921, he was a prominent jazz guitarist who started off accompanying bluesman Big Bill Broonzy when merely seventeen, and early on switched to the electric guitar. Some of his strangest work can be found within the framework of the George Barnes Octet, from 1946, where oddball compositions and off-kilter arrangements place his f-hole guitar against woodwinds, of all things. He made many solo albums, and played in tandem with Carl Kress and Joe Venuti, passing away far too young in 1977. It’s not often one finds such an underrated player with an equally large body of work, and I’m enjoying discovering his manifold talents.
Let’s get the tangled webs out of the way first, shall we? I have not only spent time in many after-hours discos with producer Emery Dobyns, but have supped with songwriter Fran Healy. Sometimes that obscures one’s appreciation of a friend’s recorded works — I don’t listen with a critical ear to the aspirations of my pals, a bit too close for comfort — and sometimes it hardly matters. When the new Travis album, Ode To J. Smith, showed up on eMusic, I curiously listened, then appreciated, further enjoyed, and beyond knowing the individuals involved, I don’t mind adding that “Before You Were Young” is one of the most beautiful songs ever. Once heard, never forgotten. Nice one, lads, and the next round’s on me.
