Led Zeppelin II was famously trashed by critics when it arrived (check out the Rolling Stone review, which looks hilariously close to something one would read on Vice or Pitchfork in 2015) in 1969. Listening to "Bring it on Home" I can tell why. Led Zeppelin is so ingrained in the roots of American music that today one could argue that they're artistically closer to John Lee Hooker than Metallica. But in the '60s, it must've sounded like Blueshammer to purists.
It took major cajones, or lack of self-consciousness, for a group of white, hard-rockin' British 20somethings to adapt Sonny Boy Williamson song (and a phrase that had already been a hit in both Sam Cooke and Bo Diddley's repertoires) into their own headbanging original, without even crediting songwriter Willie Dixon. To be fair, the Page riff sonically overwhelms Dixon's, to the point where Zeppelin owns the song at least as much as the Beach Boys own "Surfin' U.S.A." And judging from the amount of bands that have covered "Bring it on Home" since Led Zeppelin, I'd argue, to paraphrase Bob Dylan on Dylan Thomas, that Zeppelin did more for Sonny Boy Williamson than Williamson did for Zeppelin.
Converge, Torche, and Kvelertak, of thee I sing. On arguably the year's best touring lineup, three of the best metal bands of the 21st century proved that melodic doesn't mean saccharine, punk doesn't mean sloppy and that hardcore is worth saving.
Norway's Kvelertak amass more contradictions than a week of Mitt Romney campaign promises--a hardcore sextet with three guitarists, death metal without blast beats, shoutalongs in Norwegian. Fighting off mic difficulties and a ruptured disc, singer Erlend Hjelvik riled up the crowd from center stage while the band stormed through most of their 2010 debut. The d-beat riffage of "Mjød" provoked the evening's first mosh pit, and the thrashing "Blodtørst" and "Ulvetid" could have sat next to "Ace of Spades." Kvelertak probably won't tour again until their next album is out in 2013, and they deserve a headlining tour for it.
Torche intentionally changed the pace, showcasing more of the fleshed-out, major key glories from Harmonicraft and Meanderthal than their piledriving blasts of their singles. Not that the wallop wasn't there--the deadly Bo Diddley of "Letting Go" and Siamese Dreamscape in "Kicking" set the night for a cinder block-heavy stoner-pop show, driven by the supermelodies of guitarists Steve Brooks and Andrew Elstner and the restless drumming of Rick Smith. The lovely "Snakes are Charmed" and "Across the Shields" held up not only next to brutal tracks like "Pirana," but the two bands that Torche played between.
Now in their third decade as a band they've been in since boyhood, Converge shouldn't be surprising anyone. But their new album All We Love We Leave Behind is an accentuated version of their track record to date, as math-ridden and as straightforward as anything they've put together. This week's set was heavy on the new album, with the grinding "Trespasses," mathcore freakout "Aimless Arrow" and sweat-inducing title track eliciting as verbal and physical a reaction as anything from Jane Doe or Axe to Fall.
Technical problems couldn't derail the band, who carried on with segments of "Hot for Teacher" and even "Linus and Lucy" while the Highline staff worked out the sound issues. Singer Jacob Bannon whipped around the microphone like a limb, dodging bandmates, crowd surfers and stage divers with the deftness of a professional dancer. Kurt Ballou, whom, it should be noted, also produced the best albums by Torche and Kvelertak, is as vital a guitarist that punk rock can claim. By the time the crowd was satiated with a rare encore, 1996's "The Saddest Day," it was clear that Converge are one of the only bands ever to appear both DIY and born into greatness.
Sure, Axl and Slash are the icons, Duff is the anchor and Steve Adler is the Ringo. But outside of the redhead, Izzy is the best writer. He also was the first to leave the band intentionally, but he left them with one of the best songwriting records in rock history--"Patience," "Think About You," "Pretty Tied Up," "14 Years," "Bad Obssesion" and even "Mr. Brownstone." Want to know how a band with three ex-Gunners could be as boring as Velvet Revolver? Because they don't have Izzy Stradlin.
"Mr. Brownstone" rides a Bo Diddley beat into an enticingly strange riff that sounds even more stoned than its narrator. It's a fabulous blend of the most-copied rhythm in rock music and an otherworldly Stradlin phrase, weirder than anything that The Clash, Stooges, Hüsker Dü or Led Zeppelin ever did with the Diddley measure.
The lyrics are a day-in-the-life-of-GNR story that probably left a few casualties. "Mr. Brownstone" is slang for heroin, although everyone that I've met who knows that learned about it from GNR. The chorus ("I used to do a little but a little wouldn't do it, so the little got more and more/I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before") may be the definitive lyric for anyone who has ever lost self control.
Yowza, indeed.
Three years ago, my roommate and I saw a death metal show at Europa, with about five other attendees. The first act, Revocation, were months away from being America's best new metal band, as we learned while watching them honor "Mr. Brownstone" at the tail of their own terrific "Exhumed Identity." Kind of like how Bo Diddley surfaces on Appetite for Destruction.
