RE-REVISITED RE-REVIEWED

METALLICA

Garage Days Re-Revisited

(Elektra)

I awoke this morning from a horrible nightmare: I had dreamt I was at a Metallica concert. No, don’t get all overwrought, because that’s not the nightmare part. The scary part was that the new bass player was some fat guy with greasy hair playing bad jazz licks on an old, beat-up bass fiddle and that James Hetfield had went out and got himself a Saturday Night Fever-era John Travolta haircut. And if you think that’s bad, they were playing a cocktail-lounge-music version of “The Final Countdown” and James was singing like a cross between Joey Tempest and Bill Murray.

Pretty scary stuff, eh kids? Well, / woke up in a cold sweat.

Now for the reality: My partner and I were in a record store on the Lower East Side of Manhattan the other night, and we heard the heaviest of heavy metal being played on the stereo. It sounded like a well-produced demo tape, which led us to believe that it was some awesome new unsigned band. Well, I’m not a professional journalist for nothing, nosiree, Bob! Wanting to get the scoop on this awesome new act for all you fine METAL readers, I discreetly inquired of the mutant sales clerk (this is the Lower East Side, remember) “Gee whiz, but this sure is a good record, ma’am. Might you be good enough to inform us of just who these wonderful musicians might be?” (I didn’t really say it like that, but the editor told me to cut down on the cussing.)

Imagine how dumb I felt when I heard that this wonderful new band was Metallica. (Real dumb?) Apparently, they were just relaxing, hanging out in their old garage and jamming out on other people’s tunes when inspiration hit (this according to the liner notes). They figured, and I quote, “It would be good fun to record and release them.” So they went to L.A. and did just that, leaving you, the record-buying public, with a five-song EP, featuring covers of (among others) tunes by Killing Joke and Glen Danzig. Obscure tunes, all. I, for one, certainly don’t recall hearing these songs before, although I used to like Killing Joke.

Actually, I think that—whether or not Metallica planned it this way—this release is a pretty good career move for them. My theory is that they did plan it that way, but that, in and of itself, is pretty irrelevant. It’s a good move because they lost some of their “underground” credibility with Master Of Puppets, because some seemed to equate learning to play better with “selling out,” whatever that means. This record, with its cover versions of obscure/unknown gems and (compared to Master Of Puppets) sloppy production values, is designed to show that they still kick the proverbial rear end, which they do, of course. The songs are good ones, especially Glen Danzig’s “Last Caress/ Green Hell” and Metallica are, after all, wonderful players.

So why do I think this is a contrived career move? (Which doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t buy it: Contrived or not, it’s still a great record.) It’s not because it’s all pretty much “live in the studio” recording or because it’s all obscure covers, either, because Metallica really does listen to all these groups. (I have an informed source, ladies and gentlemen.) It’s just that—and this is probably going to sound really stupid, but think about it—the way they left the band talking to each other between songs on the tape sounds really phony. That’s it, OK? It’s a great record, really, it is. And at least James didn’t really get that ridiculous disco haircut.

Paul “Doctor X” Nanna

DEF LEPPARD

Hysteria

(Mercury/Polygram)

It’s been a long time, folks, but it’s been worth it. The four years Def Leppard spent working on Hysteria—a trying time during which the band fired three producers (including themselves), singer Joe Elliott fell ill, drummer Rick Allen lost his left arm in a car crash, and final producer Mutt Lange was injured in a second auto accident—were well-spent. Hysteria is a work of such utter magnificence that I can scarcely find the time to stop listening and sit down and write about it. And, now that I've finally turned the music off and sat myself down at the typewriter, I’m having trouble finding sufficient superlatives to do justice to this monumental work.

It was obvious that, even with four years to work on Hysteria, Def Lep were gonna have a tough time equalling the magnificence of their groundbreaking bestseller, Pyromania. But the still-hunky, still-gorgeous Lepsters have done it again, reasserting their preeminence in the melodic-metal field. Those songs, those guitars, those faces, that hair—the sheer greatness that is Def Leppard—are still intact, according to the evidence put forward on Hysteria.

On Pyromania, the band and producer Lange pioneered a pop/metal hybrid that combined fiery, immaculately-conceived guitar riffs (courtesy of Steve Clark and Phil Collen), wailing but masculine vocals, tight, glossy production and unforgettable melodies to produce the hottest thing on ’80s rock radio. And with Hysteria, they’ve proven—effectively if belatedly—that the preceding album was no fluke.

Rather than sounding stale from the grueling studio marathon of Hysteria's making, the band is as hot as ever, as if they can’t wait to get out of the studio and back into the arenas. The guitars are as intense and inventive as before, Elliott has learned some new vocal tricks, and bassist Rick Savage holds things together brilliantly. And hats off to Rick Allen—his drumming on Hysteria is so stupendously steady that it could almost be, well, mechanical.

Meanwhile, the songs (on which Lange receives co-writer credit) are the greatest the band has ever come up with. “Rocket,” “Love And Affection” and “Exciteable” show that the quintet’s powerful classic style hasn’t dated, while the rapflavored vocals of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” demonstrate that Def Leppard hasn’t stopped paying attention to the charts during their time out of the spotlight. And “Women” and the balladish title track— be still my heart—make me marvel that us metal chicks have somehow survived during these mega-cuties’ prolonged absence.

Forget your grungy Motorheads and Metallicas, forget your prettyboy Cinderellas and Motley Crues. Def Leppard are the best the metal world has to offer. And Hysteria is, from the beginning to end, about the closest to perfection that a rock album has ever gotten. Buy it and you may never need to buy another record. That is, of course, until the next Def Leppard album. And, hopefully, that won’t take another four years.

Amanda Huxley

THE READERS’ REVIEW

Great guns! You readers have been bombarding us with some fine album reviews ever since we introduced this winning feature—so many, in fact, that this month we’re forced to print two reviews. Many other worthy LPs were reviewed— and reviewed with uncanny insight and literary brilliance, we hasten to add—but lack of space simply prohibits us from running them all. Keep sending them in—we must admit we’re getting prejudiced in favor of typewritten, double-spaced reviews—and maybe next issue we’ll turn over the whole darned space to you, the readers.

—The Editors

HELLOWEEN

Keeper Of The Seven Keys, Pt. I

_(RCA)_

All year I have read spectacular praise of this band (written by our journalist friends from across the sea), but I’ve been completely unable to get my hands on the album until recently, stumbling across it in my neighborhood supermarket. Anxious to see (or rather, hear) if Keeper Of The Seven Keys, Pt. I is fantabulous.

Helloween occupies that sort-of nebulous category from which the more definitive speed, glam, thrash, wimp,_

(fill in your own) bands splinter from. Like Tesla, they don’t drape themselves in shredded hot pink spandex or wear leather and spikes screaming splatter. There is major pin-up potential but not tons of slick, syrupy boy and girl tunes. They’re fast but not offensive, melodic, but not boring and, best of all: great guitars and no posing!

Originating from Hamburg, Germany, Helloween's previous releases include one LP, Walls Of Jericho, and an EP. This is Michael Kiske’s first album with the band, having taken over the vocals in order to leave Kai Hansen to concentrate on guitar. Previous vinyl efforts have been well received, but nothing like the success of Keeper. . overseas, that is. I’m surprised they haven't enjoyed much visibility over here. Sure, the pumpkin theme is pretty stupid, but I think these guys will get a lot more mileage out of it than say, Cinderella.

This is one of those albums without a whole lot of songs—eight actually, although one is an intro and one is an extro and therefore don’t really count. But a limited number of songs is not to indicate a lack of ideas. To draw the proverbial comparison to modern metal archetypes Metallica, Helloween stuffs their songs with all kinds of clever and unpredictable breaks and rhythm changes.

Following the ominous “Initiation” intro is “I’m Alive,” and the immediate temptation is to compare Michael to Bruce Dickenson, or maybe Geoff Tate. I’d probably lean towards Geoff. But this isn’t intended to be a negative observation—Michael is a powerful howler in his own right. “A Little Time” is the only tune credited to said howler and features a spectacular chorus that sounds like it came from the moon. “Twilight Of The Gods” is one of those doomsday opuses with great guitar work and a fabulous operatic tenor booming in the background. “A Tale That Wasn't Right” is the obligatory power ballad which is perfectly respectable, although it represents the album’s lyrical nadir.

On side two, “Futureworld” is a song to raise your fist and beat the air to. “Halloween” is the epic of all epic songs, occupying most of the space on this side. But caution is advised, as the pumpkin infested inner-sleeve warns: “Everybody who will be spelling the song ‘Halloween’ from ‘Helloween’ with an ‘E’ and the group with an ‘A’ will immediately be turned into a big ulgy (sic) half-price-selling pumpkin!” The final cut is a brief Schenkeresque piece confirming that we’ve been converted to pumpkinheads and will wear this record out while waiting for the sequel.

Pam Rentz Sherman Oaks, CA

CELTIC FROST

Into The Pandemonium

(Combat/Noise)

Just when you thought the world was safe for conventional death metal, Celtic Frost return to twist it into new forms. Yes, the fearsome threesome are back, and their stomach churning sleaze is just as heavy and apocalyptic as ever—but if that isn’t enough, they’re more determined than ever to pass it off as art. Into The Pandemonium, CF’s third LP, features their most avant-garde material to date. It boasts even more opera singers and orchestral contributions than ever before: however, it also packs a few straightforward death-punches for the old school of Frost-heads.

The production is an improvement over their previous waxes, but still has an acceptable element of distortion (which all true death metal albums should have). Martin Ain and Tom Warrior both display a better mastery of their instruments while Reed St. Mark, who I feel needs no improvement, shows off his talent as well.

The blasphemous trio kick off their album by slaughtering the 1982 Wall Of Voodoo hit, ‘‘Mexican Radio.” A few chord changes with an occasional ‘‘Hey!” and ‘‘Ugh!” thrown in for good measure make it perfectly adapted to the CF format, a classic if I ever heard one. The second track, “Mesmerized,” is something of a shocker, since it features a new singing style Tom’s developed. His usual barfgrunting has deteriorated into a sort of wail-moaning like some creature from a George Romero movie. It’s different, if nothing else.

The album picks up again with “Inner Sanctum,” the heaviest track here. It sets a good head-banging pace reminiscent of “Suicidal Winds” and should please the thrashers disillusioned by some of the other tracks. Tom then serenades us again with his moaning on “Sorrows Of The Moon,” but in this case his new style seems to be for the better: it actually goes well with the heavy sludge oozing out of the amps. I like it. The first side is then wrapped up with the necromaniac assault of “Babylon Fell”; another one for the death moshers.

On side two, “Caress Into Oblivion” nearly lives up to its name, as I just about dozed off listening to it. Fortunately, “One In Their Pride” is a bit livelier. Here Reed plays a snappy drum beat while a variety of effects are mixed in to form an eerie musical(?) collage like “Danse Macabre” and “Tears In A Prophet’s Dream.” Then, “I Won’t Dance” is the closest I’ve heard CF come to writing a commercial song. If they did a remake with David Bowie they might even get some airplay out of this one.

Immediately following is a bombardment of the most avant-garde material in the mighty Frost’s oeuvre, a requiem called “Rex Irae.” It’s a perfect example of the kind of things that can go on in the mind after playing too many Doors albums backwards. They then exit in style with a short instrumental called “Oriental Mascarade,” which winds the album down quite nicely.

The Frost are bound to lose a few followers who can’t cope with the direction the band appears to be taking, but they should also pick up a few more sophisticated listeners in the metal community. I’m also positive that CF will get a favorable response from the critics with this album, as well. In any event, Into The Pandemonium shows that Celtic Frost have the guts to stretch the boundaries of heavy metal, but whether or not any other bands have the courage or desire to pick up on the daring experiments herein, only time will tell.

James Coombes El Paso, TX

TWISTED SISTER

Love Is For Suckers

(Atlantic)

Like Quiet Riot before them, the decline of Twisted Sister has always seemed inevitable. To many, the band could be neatly summed up with “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” and fads, by necessity, must go away.

Which is a shame.

Twisted Sister, cruelly, never deserved to be written off as a fad, something Love Is For Suckers clearly shows. Even when he’s reacting to the whole chain of events that, in effect, set him up for a fall—as he does on the scathing “Wake Up” here— Dee Snider knows what’s going on. Twisted have always been way smarter than they’ve generally been credited, and “Wake Up”—along with “One Bad Habit”—are stand-out arguments that they still are.

On the other hand, there are some problems. There’s simply no question that A.J. Pero’s departure has hurt: thudmaster Pero has been in Twisted too long for it to be otherwise, and Joe Franco, while workmanlike, is no Pero. And while the band is obviously trying to steer way clear of the ostentatious elements that took the far inferior Come Out And Play nowhere, it’s possible—in fact, it’s likely—that even they’re not aware of how entangled they’ve become with the Twisted Sister image. To these ears, some of the material here sounds overly bitter or forced.

It would seem the now-venerable band is in its final throes, and, while they’ve done their darndest to shed their irksome image, they also stand to lose what’s always been their long suit: humor. Unlike their formative work, Love Is For Suckers is tight, tough, slightly nasty and light on the laughs.

Whether or not we’ll see another Twisted Sister album is an open question-after so many years of hard work, it would be a shame to see them go by the wayside. But if go they must, then Love Is For Suckers is a fitting epitaph, and a worthy album as well.

Anne Hoyle

LIZZY BORDEN

Visual Lies

(Metal Blade/Enigma)

Lizzy Borden’s finally flipped, something many of us have not only thought inevitable but desirable as well. The notion that a sane person was putting out records called Give ’Em The Axe, Menace To Society and Terror Rising never really washed in sage metal circles anyway.

Shockingly, Lizzy tips his hand on the very cover of this latest offering by thumping his band’s prowess with a quote from “CREEM METAL” itself. To my knowledge, he’s the first to go this route and, in a sick way, it’s cool. Recall that his first mention in “CREEM METAL" came at the hands of my (now-deceased) heroes, the triumvirate of metal wisdom, who—way back in the March ’86 issue of this mag—stated that Lizzy was the child of a human milkman and an alien lizard, “resulting in the birth of a metal genius who would call himself Lizzy Borden and rule the world before his tongue was cut off in a horrible accident. ”

Come to think of it, the triumvirate were more flipped than Lizzy, but it’s nice of Liz to maintain his good relationships with this pulp factory.

Visual Lies, like most everything else Lizzy’s produced, is a rampant piece of conceptualism. .. see the same cover for details, real and imagined. This time, a character named Oblivion (Liz’s latest Alice Cooperesque alter ego) is the protagonist, and a nifty one at that. Oblivion rants, as befits anyone with his name, about his role in society: “Me Against The World” ,is self-explanatory, I suppose, as is the witty “Outcast” (“This ain’t no freak disguise/ I am for real”). (To clarify this concept, it appears that Oblivion was actually conceived inside a TV set—the womb tube, as it were—which might not beat the milkman/alien thing, but isn’t bad.)

OK, so Lizzy's for real. He’s also added J. Holmes (L.A. stun god) on guitar, a savvy move—Tony Matuzak’s probably returned to putting rolls of pennies on railroad tracks, as the triumvirate so expertly delineated way back when. The rest of the band remains intact, and the deft touch of producer Max Norman captures Lizzy Borden, the band, at their most polished. Which isn’t a see-yourself shine, but what the hell, Lizzy Borden’s always been a live band. I think.

Given that this is their best album to date—and it is—it’s now possible to read all manner of weirdness into these guys. If it’s an album, why are they visual lies? Are all the songs, as promised, lies—or is the promise itself a lie, constructing yet another layer of duplicity upon Lizzy’s labyrinth? Is Lizzy cleverly substituting “visual” for “vision,” and, if so, is his vision that of Lizzy or Oblivion?... or Tony Matuzak?... or perhaps even the triumvirate, who are dead (and thus truly in touch with oblivion)? Ah, the many levels.

I have no ready answers. Lizzy Borden’s flipped and all is well. The milkman cometh.

Art Roberts