Crappy Turntable, Awesome Records

King's X: Manic Moonlight (2001)

In recognition of Pride Month 2026, all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community, and King's X's own Doug Pinnick, I'm rolling out another round of blogs featuring colored vinyl in a rainbow sequence, continuing with today's orange selection ...

Manic Moonlight? More like tragic lowlight.

After making some of the strangest creative decisions of their career on the previous year's Please Come Home … Mr. Bulbous, King's X injected electronic samples, loops, and beats into their signature dropped tunings and three-part Beatles-esque harmonies on this 25-year-old release.

But whereas 1994's Dogman had successfully reconciled the band's unique sonic hallmarks with grunge aesthetics (a sonic yin/yang conundrum if ever there was one) in the best possible way, Manic Moonlight sunk into the muck with some of the dreariest, most despondent material of the group's career.

This turn of events, coming from a band whose uplifting, virtually transcendent brand of progressive metal, had instilled quasi-religious euphoria upon their faithful acolytes, was at best confusing, and at worst very upsetting.

Which isn't to say that Manic Moonlight didn't produce a few enjoyable numbers in opener "Believe," the familiarly arpeggiated "False Alarm," and the extended funk rock grooves of "Vegetable," which contrast nicely against classic King's X ingredients and a liquid fire Ty Tabor solo.

But other funky efforts weren't nearly as satisfying (more like watching paint dry), with Pinnick either muttering instead of singing on "Skeptical Winds," or monotonously reciting minimalist lyrics on "Yeah":

"I hate the world because of you; The blame is my mistake; Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaah …

Please forgive me for my attitude; I'm choosing to stay on my side; Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaah …

Live with an addict you pick up a habit; Of letting them destroy your life; Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaah …"

Yaaaaaaaawwwwnnn.

"Static" was at least interesting for maximizing the album's organic/electronic hybrid with somber vocals over a techno-style loop, before a driving guitar riff, growling bass, and Pinnick's emotional higher registers conveyed yet conflicting, far from reassuring message:

"Hello, I didn't mean to put my faith in you; I was afraid of losing my place and get nothing from this;

Goodbye, to my heart shaped box in the trash today; I was ashamed, but not anymore so I thank you for it;

I don't wanna do this ... anymore; I really wanna do it."

Luckily, near the very end, "Jenna" sparkled with quavering psychedelics before unleashing a powerful distorted chorus capped by soaring harmonies and a poignant love letter that finally provided listeners with some much needed emotional release.

All these years later, some overly protective fans will still defend Manic Moonlight as some kind of clever model of austerity and simplicity, but I just hear a bleak and dispiriting collection from a listless band starting to question if it was all worth it.

So if this isn't the absolute "lowlight" in the King's X discography, I'd say it's close, alongside '03's vault-emptying Black Like Sunday and '22's incoherent comeback, Three Sides of One, but maybe my opinions will change after future listens.

Oromet: The Sinking Isle (2025)

Woooooooooaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh ...

Every so often, a brand-new band emerges fully-formed and armed with the whole package: the sound, the visuals, the vision, the vibe, and not even the unfortunate decision to only make their self-titled debut available on cassette can change that.

I'm talking about Sacramento, CA funeral doom duo Oromet, featuring vocalist/guitarist Dan Aguilar (also of Occlith and Battle Hag) and producer/multi-instrumentalist (drums, bass, synths) Patrick Hills (see also Occlith, Desiccation, Feral Season, etc.).

Coming together in 2022, the pair promptly proclaimed their nerdy credentials by selecting their moniker from J.R.R. Tolkien's Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings -- specifically some random hill on the lost island kingdom of Númenor.

This provenance accounts for the decision to title their 2025 sophomore album (luckily also issued on vinyl) The Sinking Isle, which, like its predecessor, assembled a towering, triple-threat tableau to welcome listeners into Tolkien-stoked imaginations.

However, although Oromet accept and live by most funeral doom ground rules, including agonizingly slow tempos, subhuman growls, de-tuned riffage, and vast, agoraphobic atmospherics, they boldly break others with their majestic, uplifting, even transcendent melodies, and total rejection of any clean singing.

Side A of The Sinking Isle harbors a single, 21-minute-long colossus called "Hollow Dominion" that quietly stirs on that mythical shore before plummeting to unfathomable depths and then gradually surfacing again amid both hopeful and forlorn melodies, sometimes reminiscent of Nautik Doom explorers Ahab.

One of two, eleven-minute excursions found on Side B, "Marathon" may be only half as long but is twice as sinister, cloaked by solemn choral chants; yet it too pivots mid-song into a haunting acoustic interlude that has more in common with blackened folk greats Agalloch than Evoken or Thergothon.

And the last of three, "Forsaken Tarn" (incidentally, a "tarn" is a deep mountain lake formed in a cirque excavated by a glacier), also forsakes utmost despair for distinct passages marked by militaristic percussion and soaring harmonies of a mournful but regal bearing.

Thematically, all three movements share what the band itself described as "the inevitability of collapse and the cycles of ruin and rebirth" -- a very Númenorian plight, even if Oromet's chosen "narrator" is possessed of a bestial roar more akin to a Balrog.

All kidding aside, Tolkien geeks will recognize direct emotional ties between Oromet's bittersweet, yearning melodies and the mortal Númenorian kings' curse of forever gazing west towards the forbidden, Undying Lands of Valinor, eternally beyond their reach.

To complete the picture, the band commissioned celebrated Tolkien illustrator Ted Nasmith to paint The Sinking Isle's cataclysmic cover art (note King Tar-Minastir's namesake tower) to illustrate Númenor's downfall: swallowed by the waves as punishment for mankind's hubris.

But Oromet need not fear divine retribution for taking their pride in a young career that's entirely deserving of the widespread acclaim bestowed upon their first two full-lengths, and I can't wait to hear what they do next.

p.s. -- In recognition of Pride Month 2026 and all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community, I'll be posting my by-now-customary string of colored vinyl in a rainbow sequence.

Hammers of Misfortune: The Locust Years (2006)

I virtually jumped for joy when Hammers of Misfortune finally reissued their third, and, in my opinion, best album, The Locust Years, on black wax.

As I wrote in my All-Music Guide review, 20 years ago, their fans inevitably whined and bitched every time this iconoclastic San Francisco art metal ensemble kept them waiting for three or four years between records, but it was usually worth it.

Never more so than on this occasion, as The Locust Years meticulously meshed HoM's idiosyncratic twin guitar wizardry, intricate neoclassical metal orchestrations, and dense, intellectual lyrics with some of the most effective and streamlined arrangements of their career.

Perhaps it also helped that, thematically speaking, The Locust Years was the band's most grounded conceptual piece thus far, swapping its predecessors' horror fantasy narrative (The Bastard) and sociological alienation theme (The August Engine) with a blistering critique of post-9/11 American society.

"Now that we're unchained; We'll reign, insane; And drown the world in flames; And blood, and pain; Our legion eyes and ears; Will amplify your fears; In a wilderness of mirrors; In these new Locust Years."

The opening title track (*), "We are the Widows," and the spectacular "Trot out the Dead" paint a bleak, satirical portrait of a nation consumed by war, consumerism, blind patriotism, and intellectual decay -- sound familiar?

"Fool, I am no hero; So leave my casket be; Furthermore I'd never give my life; For such as thee; If the people wonder at the suffering you've caused; And your massive avarice has left them at a loss; If by chance they notice your bloody snapping jaws; The blood upon your claws; Your shifty eyes and laws; The nauseating flaws in all you've said; Trot out the dead; Trot out the dead."

Arguably even more relevant 20 years later (see the indictment of false morality in "Chastity Rides"), John Cobbett's words gained the emotional dimensions of a Greek Chorus when divvied up between fellow guitarist Mike Scalzi, bassist Jamie Myers, and keyboardist Sigrid Sheie's.

"Famine always hangs his lamp; Above the holy land;

Pestilence will pitch his tent; Upon the promised land; Death will always break his bread; Within the temple walls; War will always find his mistress; In the highest tower; Find her waiting, find her waiting; In the highest tower."

Indeed, Myers and Sheie's angelic harmonies lend a ghostly desperation to "Widow's Wall" and "Famine's Lamp," where the hypocrisy of man's politically-driven holy wars were impaled upon the latter's beautiful, classically-trained piano flourishes.

"Praised -- praised be our vanity; Now that we have our own tragedy; No time for subtlety; War is upon us, oh can't you see.

Here in the holy land; See how united and strong we stand; Slogans and banners for every man; Here in the holy land.

Death -- death to the infidels; Sons of our servants shall serve and serve us well; And gifted with endless war; Flags and fanatics forevermore."

On "Election Day," Sheie's pulsing B-3 organ locked in perfectly with Cobbett and Scalzi's guitars, and even drummer Chewy Marzolo got his showcase with an ominous Olodum-inflected drumline on the rather terrifying "War Anthem."

"It won't matter, when it's over; But ending, it's everything;

Shall we gaze into the sky; And helpless watch the storm; Foaming forms of locust swarms; Against the mirror sky; Swarming -- an insect storm; A million paper wings that whisper 'fall'; Scrawled all in blood across the sky; The writing on the wall -- the widow's wall."

All of this musical and lyrical detail kept fans like me busy for months deciphering new clues -- as did the gorgeous, intricately baroque artwork, which the smaller CD format obviously couldn't reproduce in its full glory like this 12-inch LP.

In fact, even the diametrically opposed band portraits -- one depicting the hirsute, tattooed quintet ready to rock, the other formal and dignified, outfitted for a night at the opera -- reflected HoM's punctilious commitment to every detail.

Why, these band photos almost look like AI!

But, no, Hammers of Misfortune are as real as music gets, and though I still consider The Locust Years to be their most fully-realized work, even the line-up instability and uneven recordings that followed have never failed to impress and surprise their loyal fans.

* From the Book of Joel, chapter 2, verse 25, referencing a period of devastation and wasted time, God promises: "I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten."

Tear Gas: Tear Gas (1971)

Nowadays, anyone can distribute their music to every streaming service without leaving their bedrooms, but back in the days when music was an IRL (*) activity, it was hard enough to score a record deal, let alone success, and there's yet another case in point: Tear Gas.

Before they found acclaim as the theatrical powerhouse called The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, some of those same musicians paid their dues but didn't immediately reap any benefits with a Glasgow-based heavy-prog outfit by that name.

Even before that, in the late '60s,, they formed as Mustard and consisted of guitarist Zal Cleminson, keyboardist Eddie Campbell, bassist Chris Glen, drummer Gilson Lavis, and singer Andi Mulvey, formerly of legendary Scottish beat group, The Poets.

By the time Tear Gas recorded their 1970 debut, oddly titled Piggy Go Getter, Mulvey had been replaced by David Batchelor and Lavis (later to join new wave band Squeeze) by Richard 'Wullie' Monro, who'd briefly worked in Ritchie Blackmore's pre-Deep Purple group, Mandrake Root.

But this line-up, too, wasn't bound to last, and brothers Hugh (keyboards) and Ted McKenna (drums) were brought in to help Bachelor, Cleminson, and Glen achieve a harder sound on Tear Gas' eponymous sophomore set, released 55 years ago.

And, I dare say, their ambitions were realized, because this is one of the heaviest, most aggressive records of the period, dominated by Zal's blistering fretwork, Ted's powerhouse percussion, and engineered loud-for-the-crowd by future Judas Priest producer Tom Allom.

Indeed, art rock barely enters the equation here -- such is Tear Gas' riff-driven intensity (I'm talking a little Cream, a little Zeppelin, a little Savoy, etc.) across muscular, technically impressive originals like "That's What's Real," "Woman for Sale," and "I'm Glad."

The group's progressive inclinations (and reputation) only manifest on the elaborate hard/soft contrasts of "Where Is My Answer," the uncharacteristically dreamy reverie of "The First Time," and an initially unrecognizable cover of Jethro Tull's "Love Story."

Supposedly used, said Cleminson, to shock their audiences as Tear Gas' show opener, the rendition unexpectedly explodes out of a sweet and subtle melody ( curiously foreshadows the Smashing Pumpkins' "Today") into legit proto-metallic devastation.

For a final twist, the group revisits their roots with the barroom boogie of "Lay it On Me" and a classic rock & roll mash-up of Elvis' "Jailhouse" and "All Shook Up" -- a once popular gambit for heavy bands as diverse as Blue Cheer, UFO, and Led Zeppelin.

But it didn't pan out for Tear Gas, even though this sophomore LP (released through EMI's curiously named Regal Zonophone imprint) 'also boasted the distinction of a cover design executed by future Hipgnosis icon Storm Thorgerson.

By 1973, Cleminson, Glen, and the McKennas had parted ways with Bachelor and cast their lot with Alex Harvey's piratical crew, proceeding to rampage through the rest of the '70s with some of the decade's most daring, if misunderstood, albums.

* That's IRL as "in real life," for those of you not hip like me to Gen Z slang -- har-har.

Related: Sensational Alex Harvey Band: Framed, Next, The Impossible Dream, Tomorrow Belongs to Me, Live, SAHB Stories.

More Obscure Early ‘70s Heavy Rock: A.K.A.’s Do What You Like, Alamo’s Alamo, Ancient Grease’s Women and Children First, Asterix’s Asterix, Atlee’s Flying a Head, Bang’s Mother/Bow to the King, Birtha’s Birtha, Blackwater Park’s Dirt Box, Bloodrock’s Bloodrock 2, Blues Creation’s Demon & Eleven Children, Bolder Damn’s Mourning, Boomerang’s Boomerang, Buffalo’s Volcanic Rock, Bull Angus’ Bull Angus, Cactus’ Cactus, Captain Beyond’s Captain Beyond, Charlee’s Charlee, Copperhead’s Copperhead, Cradle’s The History, Crushed Butler’s Uncrushed, Curly Curve’s Curly Curve, Dies Irae's First, Fanny Adams’ Fanny Adams, Flied Egg’s Dr. Siegel’s Fried Egg Shooting Machine, Flower Travellin’ Band’s Satori, A Foot in Coldwater’s A Foot in Coldwater, Fuse’s Fuse, Gift’s Gift, Hard Stuff’s Bulletproof, Haystacks Balboa's Haystacks Balboa, Head Over Heels’ Head Over Heels, Heavy Cruiser’s Heavy Cruiser…

Sam Cooke: Night Beat (1963)

Of all Sam Cooke's remarkable qualities, some of the most obvious were the incomparable voice that crowned him the 'King of Soul,' the sharp business sense that made him a savvy entrepreneur, and the incredible musical legacy he left behind despite his shocking, premature death in December of 1964.

But next in line might be how Cooke managed to convey so much raw power and emotion amid the otherwise strait-laced commercial pop ingredients (soaring strings, vocal choruses, ornate production) used to maximize many of his records' crossover appeal.

1963's Night Beat was a notable exception, however, and is widely regarded by fans, critics, and music historians to be Sam's defining masterpiece, precisely because it resolved this paradox ...

Unlike Sam's lushly orchestrated pop hits, these recordings involved a small, intimate studio group (including a 16-year-old Billy Preston) providing subtle, uncluttered backdrops that let the spotlight shine on Cooke's silken, emotive tenor in all its glory.

All twelve performances were cut at RCA Victor's Hollywood studios over just three nights, and even that nocturnal setting contributes to the stark, sultry atmosphere permeating the stylistically eclectic final product issued as Night Beat in August of '63.

To achieve this bare-bones intimacy, Cooke divided the album's material into three overlapping moods: (1) haunting returns to his gospel roots, (2) sinking into smoldering blues standards, and (3) reinterpreting classic rock & roll and R&B with a jazzy sophistication.

Stripping away the effusive shouts of his Soul Stirrers past, Sam tackles spirituals like "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen," "Lost and Lookin'," and "You Gotta Move" with a quiet, minimalist, but intense reverence, proving with his deliberate phrasing that he didn't need Wall of Sound production to command a room.

When it comes to smoldering blues standards like "Mean Old World," "Trouble Blues," and "Please Don't Drive Me Away," Cooke channels the genre's dark, mournful energy and irons it out with his classy, velvety sensuality, which I can't quite reconcile with Howlin' Wolf's tawdry sexual metaphors on "Little Red Rooster."

Finally, jukebox favorites like "Laughin' and Clownin'" and "Shake, Rattle and Roll," have their raucous R&B and rock & roll party vibes replaced by a more relaxed, late-night cool, yet they still manage to lift the album out of abject despondency.

So here's the deal: you still can't go wrong making your first Sam Cooke vinyl purchase a greatest hits collection like 1985's career-spanning The Man and His Music, which covers all of his best loved hits -- fancy arrangements, first class production, and all.

But when you're ready to take that next step into Cooke's discography so as to experience an entirely deeper side of his amazing and dearly missed artistry, Night Beat will probably be your best bet.

Just think of how many more creative and professional superlatives Sam could have accumulated over the past 60 years since he's been gone ...

Madonna: True Blue (1986)

Madonna grows up? Learns to sing? Loses her virginity? All of the above?

I really can't decide, but she absolutely, positively, undeniably earned the title of "Queen of Pop" with her third full-length, True Blue, which turns 40 later this month, and saw the budding legend masterfully retaining her dance club roots while enhancing her artistic credibility.

And if you're wondering what the fuck a Madonna LP is doing in this blog, chill out!

This is my brother's LP and I kept it safe for him while he was moving, so why not jot down some observations about it here?

After working with Nile Rodgers on the sugary (if provocative) dance-pop of Like a Virgin, Madonna broadened her musical horizons and took the production reins here, backed by former boyfriend Stephen Bray (the roots) and musical director Patrick Leonard (the evolution).

She also co-wrote every True Blue tune, scaled back her reliance on sex appeal, and notably swapped her girlish helium soprano for a throatier, fuller alto, which arguably helped critics to take her more seriously while supporting the more mature subjects addressed in some songs.

Songs like first single "Papa Don't Preach," which, believe it or not, offered a significant female empowerment message for the time, and maybe her all-time greatest ballad, the chilling "Live to Tell," whose deep, dark secret is never fully revealed but alludes to child abuse.

For contrast, Madonna reverted to more familiarly upbeat sounds and themes on the title track, "Open Your Heart" (originally offered to Cyndi Lauper, who passed), and her first foray into Latin pop and Spanish lyrics, "La Isla Bonita."

I could hardly remember the remaining cuts, but the interchangeable synth pop of "Where's the Party" and even the salsa-accented "Love Makes the World Go Round" could have just as easily appeared on a Whitney Houston, Taylor Dayne, or Jody Watley album.

And in keeping with the 'Material Girl's' burgeoning cinematic ambitions (she had recently wrapped work on Desperately Seeking Susan, among other flicks), "White Heat" was apparently inspired by James Cagney's 1949 film noir of the same name and "Jimmy Jimmy" by James Dean.

These silver screen exploits, too, would help Madonna complete her ascension from upstart dance diva to the 1980s' undisputed, defining female pop star, and, eventually, the best-selling female music artist of all time -- suck on that Taylor Swift!

And the blockbuster True Blue contributed a huge chunk of those record-breaking sales, moving over 25 million copies and also qualifying, not only as Madonna's best-selling LP to date but the best-selling album of the 1980s by ANY female artist.

Wow!

Count Five: "Psychotic Reaction" / "They're Gonna Get You" (1966)

When all is said and done and Father Time has ground us all to dust, rock 'n' roll will be remembered (or not) for its uncanny, transcendent power to turn the humblest sounds and rawest emotions into musical atom bombs of devastating, life-altering force.

This ineffable, almost numinous quality describes the title track of this 60-year-old 7-inch, which has stood the test of time as both a cornerstone of America's garage rock golden age AND an inadvertent precursor to the ensuing psychedelic era.

Of course I'm talking about "Psychotic Reaction," by San Jose, CA's Count Five.

Formed in 1964, initially as The Squires, by teenagers Mouse Michalski (lead guitar) and Ron Chaney (bass), they became the Count Five after adding John 'Sean' Byrne (lead vocals, rhythm guitar), Craig 'Butch' Atkinson (drums), and Kenn Ellner (vocals, harmonica).

Their matching Dracula-inspired capes soon followed and a gimmick was born; but this might have amounted to nothing if Byrne (who'd only recently immigrated from his native Ireland) hadn't composed a stone-cold classic in "Psychotic Reaction."

Released in the summer of '66 by independent Double Shot Records, the single shot to No. 5 in the U.S. charts (No. 3 in Canada) and neatly bridged garage and acid rock with its distorted fuzz guitar, hypnotic strums, train whistle harmonica, double-time breaks, and oddly sedate vocal delivery.

Indeed, few songs leave as much to imagination while saying so little:

"I feel depressed, I feel so bad; 'Cause you're the best girl that I've ever had; I can't get your love, I can't get a fraction; Oh little girl, psychotic reaction.

And it feels like this!

I feel so lonely night and day; I can't get your love, I must stay away; Well, I need you girl, by my side; Oh little girl, would you like to take a ride now? I can't get your love, I can't get satisfaction; Oh little girl, psychotic reaction."

Years later, legendary rock critic Lester Bangs titled his surreal 1971 essay "Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung" after the track, and the song's inclusion in '72's seminal Nuggets compilation cemented its iconic, countercultural status, which the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame eventually recognized by naming "it"Psychotic Reaction" one of the '500 Songs that Shaped Rock and Roll.'

But if you're wondering why the Count Five became a one-hit-wonder, let's start by flipping over this single to sample the embarrassing B-side, "They're Gonna Get You": a childish novelty number one can't possibly take seriously, with its nonsensical lyrics and kiddie voices.

Fact is, the young group simply wasn't ready to deal with their first single's unexpected success (neither was their inexperienced manager, Mr. Ellner), let alone writing and recording a decent full-length to capitalize on their brush with fame.

But Double Shot insisted they try anyway and the Count Five duly emerged from the studio, just a few months later, with a cheaply produced, poorly marketed LP that rose no higher than No. 122 on the Billboard charts and spelled the end of the band's mercurial run.

When faced with the prospect of soldiering on and facing the frightening prospect of the Vietnam draft, or staying in school, the band members chose the latter, allegedly turning down thousands of dollars in concert bookings, and consigning the Count Five to history.

But their singular moment of brilliance, "Psychotic Reaction," obviously has kept us talking about the Count Five up to the present day.

Dio: Intermission EP (1986)

With so many albums to buy and so little money to spend, I could rarely justify spending my teenage pennies on live EPs like Dio's Intermission, Accept's Kaizoku-Ban, or even Slayer's Live Undead until recent years, when I started rebuilding my vinyl collection.

Granted, I didn't think twice about purchasing Maiden Japan back in '85, but that was on a completely different level of 'must-have' metal.

Anyway, the aptly named Intermission was how Ronnie James Dio bought some time between '85's Sacred Heart and '87's Dream Evil, and announced the replacement of original Dio guitarist Vivian Campbell with former Rough Cutt shredder Craig Goldy.

Anything to maintain career momentum during a busy '86 that earlier found Ronnie, Campbell, and bassist Jimmy Bain recruiting dozens of fellow metal-heads to lend their voices and guitars to the Hear 'n Aid charity project amid almost incessant touring.

And what a tour it was: one that went down in heavy metal lore thanks to one of the era's most ambitious and most talked about special effects extravaganzas, headlined by a certain towering animatronic monster!

I'm of course talking about 'Denzel the Dragon,' as he was cruelly nicknamed by the mordant U.K. press, and with whom the diminutive Dio would slay on a nightly basis, but who gained immortality on Intermission's cover. (*)

Enough with the surrounding details, though ...

Another reason I passed on this EP back in '86 was that I'd grown a little weary of Ronnie's schtick and I simply wasn't bowled over by the efficient but unvarying performances of Dio favorites "King of Rock and Roll," "Rainbow in the Dark," "Sacred Heart," and "We Rock."

When they did deviate from standard studio album arrangements, it was to embark on what I call Ronnie's "Medley Madness," which, to my knowledge, was introduced as far back as his stint with Black Sabbath for the Live Evil rendition of "Heaven and Hell" and "The Sign of the Southern Cross."

On Intermission, that meant forcibly stuffing brief snippets of Rainbow's "Long Live Rock 'n' Roll" and "Man On the Silver Mountain" into Dio's "Rock 'n' Roll Children" in an irritating attempt to remind us he'd sung for a bunch of great bands.

Yeah, Ronnie, we know!

Anyway, the EP's sixth and final offering was a decent, not exceptional, new studio track entitled "Time to Burn," which officially welcomed Goldy into the fold in time for the second half of the year-long Sacred Heart tour.

In conclusion: like most intermissions, not everyone found it necessary to leave their "seats" between Dio's album-length "acts," to check out this EP and, in my case, it was to walk out of the "theater" entirely, never to return for any of Ronnie's future solo endeavors.

* Years later, Ronnie would have the last laugh when he named his ninth studio LP, Killing the Dragon.

Uriah Heep: High and Mighty (1976)

Dreams die every day in rock 'n' roll and a significant one was dying 50 years ago (or thereabouts) for Uriah Heep and their founding singer David Byron, who, unbeknownst to most, had recorded his final album (their ninth) with the heavy metal pioneers in 1976's High and Mighty.

The tour that followed was plagued by widening internal rifts, but the most obvious centered around Byron's alcohol-impaired performances, which ultimately escalated into an "either he goes or I go" standoff with band leader Ken Hensley.

In truth, Heep's problems ran much deeper (Heeper?) and included increasing distrust in longtime manager, label owner, and producer, Gerry Bron, who was barred from the studio this time around so Hensley could dominate proceedings, instead.

Hensley wound up writing every song, two with bassist John Wetton (ex-King Crimson, future Asia), who also handled lead vocals on the opening "One Way or Another" in what could only be seen as a passive-aggressive warning shot at Heep's unreliable frontman.

Alas, this petty ploy backfired almost immediately, just as soon as Byron made a typically dramatic entrance on the ensuing "Weep in Silence": preening like a peacock and packing the punch of his powerhouse vocals, which in no way betrayed his ailing health.

Most of the material that followed exchanged the heavy prog and fantastic lyrics of yesteryear for mainstream rock (e.g. "Misty Eyes," "Woman of the World," "Can't Stop Singing"), but then, so had preceding LPs dating all the way back to '73's Sweet Freedom.

Partial exceptions like "Midnight," the slide guitar-infused "Make a Little Love," and the ominous "Footprints in the Snow" (another, more direct message to Byron, highlighted by a spiraling Mick Box guitar lick) didn't even try to climb previous heights of epic-length inspiration.

But I happen to enjoy these numbers for what they are, as well as the throwback swirling synths and good humor of "Can't Keep a Good Band Down," which delivered a final display of defiant band unity against Uriah Heep's critics:

"I can't believe y'all still sayin'; We're a long way from rock 'n' roll; You won't look for the good in the tunes we're playin'; You prefer to say we got no soul;

But day after day, in town after town; People say we're doin' alright; We play and we stay boogyin' down; And rockin' on into the night;

It's breath and words and time you're wastin'; When you should be tryin' to have a good time; For a good few years it's been yours we've tasted; So here's a little piece of our mind;

We'll roll and we'll roll and we'll roll and we'll roll; Till we run out of reason to try; If it happens you don't approve; It don't matter, we won't ask why;

You can't keep a good band down; You'll never find the solution; You won't stop us runnin' around; You're dealin' with an institution;

We'll fill our cup with wine while you ... Fill your head with high ideals; You know so much but you still can't touch; Till you find out how it feels;

It'll take much more than the high and mighty; To bring down the king of the road; We could still be friends and quit this fightin'; And let the real story be told;

You can't keep a good band down; You'll never find the solution; You won't stop us runnin' around; With your paragraphs of pollution;

You can't keep a good band down."

Unfortunately, unremarkable record sales suggested fans were also torn on Uriah Heep's musical direction, and few observers saw Byron's apologetic words ("I'm so sorry for the things I've done") on the poignant, piano-led "Confession" for the emotional swan song it turned out to be. (*)

Not that his ousting could solve the group's deeper problems, as Wetton also quit (replaced by erstwhile Spider from Mars Trevor Bolder) ahead of Heep's hastily recorded 1977 follow-up, Firefly, featuring former Lucifer's Friend frontman John Lawton.

Sure, Uriah Heep would carry on (still does!), long after Lawton and even Hensley gave up the fight, but I myself have little love for the pedestrian monolith of nostalgia still led by the indefatigable Box -- heavy metal's ultimate "guitar zero." (**)

As for David Byron, though he tried to keep the dream alive with a busy work schedule fronting Rough Diamond and the Byron Band, he was never able to defeat Demon Alcohol and finally succumbed to directly related health complications in 1985 at the age of 37.

* CD reissues of High and Mighty unearthed a very decent outtake called "Name of the Game," well worth checking out.

** Let me explain: I say "guitar zero" because Box is surely the most invisible lead guitarist of heavy metal's '70s generation, headlined by fretboard giants (a.k.a. "heroes") like Page, Iommi, Blackmore, Tipton, Downing, Schenker, Roth, et al.

The Black Crowes: Lions (2001)

After caving to record label pressures with a back-to-basics, Shake Your Money Maker-styled classic rock record in 1999's By Your Side, those obstinate, contrarian Black Crowes swerved violently in another direction 25 years ago with Lions.

Their first release for Virgin Records subsidiary, V2, which granted the band total creative freedom, the album introduced new guitarist Audley Freed (ex-Cry of Love) and may just be the Crowes' most sonically distinct and brazenly experimental, though not in a good way.

At least, for all these changes, it didn't find the band reverting to the dazed, untethered hippie meanderings of 1996's Three Snakes and One Charm.

Instead, the Crowes' recent experience performing Led Zeppelin songs with Jimmy Page influenced their approach to songwriting dynamics, according to Rich Robinson, but not necessarily the inspiration they found in funk, soul, folk music, and, yes, psychedelia.

The resulting Lions was the sort of album that plays hard to get; making fans work through numerous listens to uncover its secrets, discern its strengths and weaknesses, and grow to love it (or hate it) for what it was -- like two prideful lovers nervously reconnecting after a break-up.

Opening cut, "Midnight from the Inside Out," sounds like an acid doom dirge, and second track "Lickin'" like an anti-single; in fact, I'm not sure Rich or Audley ever strum their guitars, just manipulate their volume knobs from start to finish!

Neither "Come On" nor "No Use Lying" offer major shows of affection, so the album's first welcoming chorus doesn't hug you until the strings-sweetened "Losing My Mind," five songs in, and even for someone who enjoys UN-welcoming music, this feels a little too long.

However, it takes just two more conventional rockers, "Ozone Mama" and "Greasy Grass River," for the Crowes' cautious courtship to transform into lovestruck euphoria on the gospel-soaring "Soul Singing," which has since proven to be this album's only concert staple.

Next thing you know, by the subsequent cut, "Miracle to Me," Chris Robinson is all but supplicating the listener (or at least his new wife Kate Hudson) to "Be my lover, be my friend, be a miracle to me" -- what a charmer!

I could take or leave the funky "Young Man, Old Man," appreciate the maelstrom of activity across "Cosmic Friend," and would never complain about the ascending power chords of "Cypress Tree," but the closing, brilliant "Lay It All on Me," takes things to another level with a parting piano masterclass from Eddie Harsch (R.I.P.).

All in all, I think patient dedicated fans who soldiered through Lions' unfamiliar sonics and early emotional distance were eventually convinced that The Black Crowes could still deliver the goods, but the album quickly lost momentum after its chart debut at No. 20.

The ensuing 'Brotherly Love Tour' in conjunction with Oasis was anything but, marred by sluggish ticket sales, mounting tensions behind the scenes, and the tragic attacks on September 11, which postponed many dates until the end of the year.

Come January 2002, the band was officially announcing the beginning of an indefinite hiatus, which was only interrupted by a contractually obligated Live album and the Robinsons' solo pursuits until the Crowes finally reunited in 2005.

For a while, anyway, until the Robinsons' next bust-up, and the one after that, and so on and so forth, forever amen, which reminds me, I've yet to pick up their latest, A Pound of Feathers, but I'll surely share my thoughts about that LP, too, soon enough.

Ramones: Animal Boy (1986)

Now that most of the Ramones are no longer with us and their iconic music is all we have left, it would be easy to focus on our fond, if bittersweet memories of punk rock's archetypal band, but 40 years ago their career reached a new low with the release of Animal Boy.

1984's Too Tough to Die had been optimistically hailed as a return to form, but you wouldn't know it from its frustratingly modest sales, and that, along with fast-deteriorating intra-band relationships, led to one of the quartet's worst efforts 40 years ago.

With Joey disillusioned and Johnny as difficult as ever, Dee Dee shouldered most of the songwriting, with one key contribution from the underrated Richie Ramone, who came up with the album's lead-off track and single, "Somebody Put Something in My Drink."

By and large, though, the material was pushed in two, irreconcilable and often indefensible directions by the influence of hardcore and the keyboard sweetenings endorsed by producer Jean Beauvoir, formerly of punk/metal shock-rockers The Plasmatics. (*)

The first of these drove next-level blitzkriegs like the title track and "Eat the Rat," while the second corrupted "She Belongs to Me" (a typical Joey love song composed by Dee Dee) and "Something to Believe In" with '80s-style synthesizers, heretical to the group's punk roots.

At least the music video's parody of the Live Aid theme was entertaining.

Strapped for ideas, Dee Dee recycled weak variations on the band's "Pinhead" theme ("Apeman Hop," "Freak of Nature"), accidentally hit the mark with the silly but endearing "Crummy Stuff," and gave a play-by-play of Sid Vicious' and Nancy Spungen's doomed love affair on "Love Kills."

"Sid was a punk rock king; Nancy was a broken queen; When you're hooked on heroin; Don't you know you'll never win."

As for Joey, he added the totally forgettable "Hair of the Dog" and "Mental Hell," then collaborated with Dee Dee and Beauvoir on the passive-aggressive highlight, "My Brain is Hanging Upside Down (Bonzo Goes to Bitburg)" -- a protest of President Ronald Reagan's visit to a Nazi cemetery aimed squarely at the conservative Johnny.

Clearly, Animal Boy was as disjointed and conflicted an album as the band itself at the time of its recording, earning mixed reviews upon release and even more so in retrospect, much like the albums that followed it over the next few years.

But at least the Ramones would never again flirt with such commercial ingredients in the years and albums that remained to them (the especially heavy Mondo Bizarro being the clear standout), which I suppose we should be grateful for.

* Who also supplied additional guitar, along with Walter Lure of Johnny Thunders' Heartbreakers.

Irish Coffee: Irish Coffee (1971)

I had to refresh my own memory, but, for those who don't know (or don't drink), Irish Coffee (Caife Gaelach) is a caffeinated cocktail consisting of Irish whiskey, hot coffee, and sugar, stirred and topped with cream (sometimes cream liqueur), then drunk through the cream.

Emphasis on "drunk" ... I think I know what I'm doing this weekend!

One must assume the drink was also popular in Belgium and in Aalst, East Flanders, to be exact, because that's where the band named Irish Coffee was formed in 1970, after rebranding from a mid '60s beat group called The Voodoos.

Their musical influences naturally evolved apace: from The Shadows, Beatles, and Rolling Stones, to Iron Butterfly, Vanilla Fudge, and Deep Purple, whose late '60s heavy psych period is abundantly reflected in this group's 55-year-old eponymous debut.

Problem is, that sound -- an organ-drenched, guitar-shredding, classically-rooted melange of post-psych and proto-metal, simultaneously progressive and regressive -- was already slightly outdated by 1971, when Irish Coffee took their shot.

And yet, singer/guitarist William Souffreau, lead guitarist Jean Van Der Schueren, organist Paul Lambert, bassist Willy De Bisschop and drummer Hugo Verhoye possessed more than enough talent and road-tested experience to make it all work, more often than not.

For example, see how the archaic ingredients of "The Show" (parts one and two) and "I'm Lost" are offset by no less than three, tastefully rendered laments for the Age of Aquarius: "When Winter Comes," "A Day Like Today," and the funereal "Beginning or the End," whose hard/soft dynamics echo Deep Purple's "Child in Time."

Moreover, the manic drive of "Can't Take It" (used here in a Hard Days Night-style Belgian TV montage) and altogether astounding, controlled aggression of "Hear Me," provide ample evidence of the experience and musicianship the band accumulated throughout the late '60s.

Unfortunately, Irish Coffee's best known composition, aptly named "Masterpiece," was omitted from the album, including this reissue (come on, guys!), after being released as a single (paired with "The Show") and charting highly in several European countries.

That casual but fateful decision may have doomed Irish Coffee's career prospects, as the album didn't exactly fly off record store shelves, despite a healthy touring schedule supporting the likes of Focus, Uriah Heep, and Colosseum.

Instead, the grueling road work proved too much for Van Der Schueren and Verhoye, who were replaced by Raf Lenssens and Luc de Clus, for subsequent singles in '72 and '74, when disaster struck in the form of a road accident that killed Lambert.

So essential were his contributions to Irish Coffee's music that the surviving band members wouldn't entertain the thought of carrying on without him and split, although some reconvened two years later under a new band name, Joystick, which never recorded.

Eventually, Souffreau, who'd continued writing, recording, and performing solo into the 1990s, took it upon himself to reissue the Irish Coffee LP and the public's warm reception led to a smattering of partial reunion shows and new releases until his passing in 2023.

Wild Horses: Stand Your Ground (1981)

Precious few artists have what it takes to be a superstar ...

Most are competent musicians and even excellent performers, but simply lack the natural charisma, ineffable presence, or elusive je ne sais quoi to achieve headliner status.

This is the story of Wild Horses.

Both Jimmy Bain (ex-Rainbow) and Brian Robertson (ex-Thin Lizzy) had already proven their worth as instrumentally accomplished sidemen and even co-songwriters, but when they joined forces to lead Wild Horses, they could do little more than prove my point.

After barely making a dent with their first LP in 1980, the group tried again in '81 with Stand Your Ground, on which they were backed by drummer Clive Edwards and second guitarist John Lockton (replacing Neil Carter -- another reliable sideman, who'd left for UFO and, later, Irish guitar hero Gary Moore).

But the end results were very much the same, even though Wild Horses tried to elevate their game while energizing and toughening up their sound with hard-driving, take-no-prisoner efforts like "I'll Give You Love," "The Axe," and the title track.

Robertson (that's him in the futuristic shades) also lent his trademark stinging leads and tasteful virtuosity to standouts like "In the City," the Lizzy-esque "Another Lover," and the somewhat one-dimensional but still effective "Stake Out."

And while he wisely relinquished most vocal duties to the more tuneful Bain, a lack of lyrical depth undermined delusional appeals to the American market (where the album wasn't even released) like "Back in the U.S.A.," "New York City," and the downright comical "Miami Justice."

Who did they think they were fooling?

What's more, at a time when the New Wave of British Heavy Metal was shoving an emphatic fist into the face (and arse) of tired hard rock and metal left over from the '70s, Wild Horses' commercial aspirations felt frankly formulaic, uninventive, and decidedly old-school.

Luckily, capable sidemen who accept their fate will always find work, so after winding down Wild Horses in '82, Robertson briefly joined Motörhead and Bain worked with Kate Bush (seriously!) before enjoying a decade-long run with Dio.

Today, only a limited number of people may remember Wild Horses, let alone their two long-players, but thousands upon thousands are still singing Bain and Robertson's praises for the contributions they left behind, albeit from under the shadows of true rock 'n' roll legends.

Necrophobic: Hrimthursum (2006)

20 years ago and over a decade into their career, Sweden's Necrophobic decided to test their fans by naming their fifth studio album Hrimthursum, which is the nearly unpronounceable Icelandic word (speak for yourself, Icelanders say!) for "Frost Giants."

Four years had elapsed since the blackened death metal pioneers' previous LP, Bloodhymns, which, if you ask me, had joined most of its predecessors in failing to impress, let alone measure up to the band's landmark debut The Nocturnal Silence.

Fact is Necrophobic faced historically stiff competition during the 1990s' golden age of Swedish death metal, and they clearly needed time to develop their songwriting beyond Satanically-inspired, high-speed tremolo overkill.

Which they did here by incorporating slower, marching tempos, piano and acoustic guitar interludes, operatic male, female, and choral chants, plus lyrics about Norse mythology amid their standard velocity, violence, and anti-Christian themes.

Some of these ingredients are immediately introduced by the not-at-all-controversially-named opening ritual, "The Slaughter of Baby Jesus," then deployed with varying degrees of success on the title track, "I Strike with Wrath," and standout mini-epic, "The Crossing."

Not to be overlooked was the cleaner, crisper production overseen by Fredrik Folkare (of Unleashed) and Anders Bentell at House of Voodoo Studio, which replaced Tomas Skogsberg and Sunlight Studios as Necrophobic's go-to recording choices.

However, longtime fans were also catered to by the blast-beaten ferocity of "Blinded by Light, Enlightened by Darkness," and I still break into an idiotic grin every time frontman Tobias Sidegård projectile-vomits a classic black metal "BLERGH!"

However, select efforts like "Eternal Winter," and "Black Hate" found Necrophobic encroaching a little too obviously into Unleashed's patented, Viking-themed rot 'n' roll sandbox, while the aforementioned were often compared to Dissection -- another reminder that Necrophobic never found a truly distinctive formula all their own.

That being said, the surrounding evolutions arguably elevated Hrimthursum to the near-top of Necrophobic's admittedly spotty discography up to that point, and I personally think their next LP, Death to All, may be the best thing they ever did.

Sun Ra and his Solar Arkestra: Visits Planet Earth (1966) [Recorded 1958/1956]

For everyday fans struggling to wrap their heads around the free jazz insanity of The Heliocentric Worlds of Sun Ra's twin volumes in 1966, Visits Planet Earth must have felt like a welcome return to less extreme and challenging sound experiments.

Emphasis on "return," because although it was released in 1966, Visits Planet Earth collected recordings dating back to 1956 and '58, when jazz's ultimate space cadet and his Solar Arkestra were undergoing a radical musical mutation.

Indeed, these "Franken-Sessions" constructed a bridge between the ensemble's big-band bebop roots and the adventurous space jazz explorations undertaken by the "Golden Era" Arkestra, including John Gilmore on tenor sax and Marshall Allen on alto sax, among others.

To wit, while their music is bebop-adjacent, the titles and themes of tracks like "Planet Earth," "Reflections in Blue," and "Saturn" signaled some of the Arkestra's first steps into Afrofuturism, which established their mythology as extraterrestrial travelers.

The swaggering "Saturn," in particular, would become a staple of Sun Ra's live performances for decades to come, and while "Two Tones" is pretty much pure bop, "Eve" contains a "blocky," percussive Ra piano solo that some critics compared to Thelonious Monk.

Also according to critics ('cos what do I know?), one of my favorite numbers, "Overtones of China," was an early example of Ra's "exotica" influence, meshing bombastic percussion (see also "El Viktor") and eerie flute solos that hinted at otherworldly textures yet to come.

Most of my favorite Sun Ra material inhabits this sonic realm, and much of it came neatly juxtaposed with eye-catching, hand-drawn cover art and multi-colored label variations (red, blue, green, whatever color was available) pressed by Ra's independent Saturn Records.

My LP is obviously a reissue, but its cover, like many from this period, was crafted by Sun Ra himself and unspecified Arkestra members, armed with nothing but paper, markers, crayons, and paint, while they shared communal living spaces in New York and later Philadelphia.

Like many elements of Sun Ra's "outsider" career, which scraped by largely without the benefits of traditional music industry infrastructure (major labels, distributors, etc.), what started as a matter of economic necessity, wound up turning D.I.Y. designs into fine art.

But let's get back to the music, because maybe the final word on Visits Planet Earth is that its clear melodies, structured compositions, and defined rhythms provide a far more inviting entry point into the Sun Ra discography than his mind-warping free jazz works.

Give it a spin and I think you will agree ...

Jo Jo Gunne: Bite Down Hard (1973)

In 1972, Jo Jo Gunne literally raced into the U.S. Top 40 (and U.K. Top 10) with their very first single, “Run Run Run,” giving band founders Jay Ferguson (vocals, keyboards) and Mark Andes (bass) a well-deserved taste of success after five frustrating years of mostly fruitless hustle with psych-rockers Spirit.

But despite their "membership” in a supposed singer-songwriter’s haven like Asylum Records -- home to Joni Mitchell, Jackson Browne, Laura Nyro, Tom Waits, and the like -- these guys weren’t exactly reinventing pop song architecture nor were they penning thought-provoking poetry. 

Instead, Jo Jo Gunne seemed perfectly content to appeal to a less discerning stripe of music consumer with that debut, and again with their tellingly titled sophomore LP, Bite Down Hard -- I just can’t decide whether to call it cock rock (*) or corporate rock.

Maybe my judgement is being corrupted by Ferguson’s eerie resemblance to Nickelback’s Chad Kroeger (daddy?), but, in any case, Bite Down Hard serves up generous portions of formulaic radio rock, e.g. “60 Minutes to Go,” “Rock Around the Symbol,” “Broken Down Man.”

To be fair, the opening “Ready Freddy” is darn near irresistible (it may be dumb, but it ain’t stupid, if you know what I mean), “Take Me Down Easy” unlocks a poppy southern rock groove, and “Wait a Lifetime” nicely incorporates a soulful piano and bluesy harmonica.

But when I hear the syrupy synthesizers on “Roll Over Me,” I can’t help but think that Jo Jo Gunne were just paving another mile in that infinite, featureless mainstream rock highway, next stops: Head East (of Flat as a Pancake fame), Bon Jovi, Matchbox 20, Nickelback, you get the picture.

So you may just want to take the next exit, and “Run Run Run” away from Jo Jo Gunne as fast as you can, cos that’s what I’ll be doing ...

* If you think I’m exaggerating the band’s casual misogyny, just wait until you see (hopefully not hear) the group’s third LP, released later in ‘73, called Jumpin’ the Gun, whose gratuitously churlish cover art was deemed offensive, even by the ‘70s liberal, politically-incorrect standards.

Conlon Nancarrow: Studies for Player Piano (1969)

So who WAS this "Great Italian," Conlon Nancarrow, who was name-checked by Frank Zappa on 1981's Tinseltown Rebellion?

Well, he was an American-born composer who spent most of his life in self-imposed exile in Mexico City, and is considered one of the most original musical visionaries of the 20th century, ironically for writing music that was impossible for human hands to play.

His instrument of choice was the player piano (a.k.a. the pianola): to outwards appearances a standard piano that uses a music roll and a pneumatic or electromechanical mechanism to play itself -- without a pianist anywhere near to touching the keys.

Here's how it works: a long roll of strategically perforated paper, in which each hole corresponds to a specific note and duration, spins across a metal tracker bar with a row of small holes, while a pneumatic vacuum system triggers a bellows connected to each piano key's hammer and respective string.

I'm pretty sure most people over 50 remember player pianos, even though their heyday as a popular home entertainment device passed along with the Great Depression, but for Nancarrow, this wasn't just an archaic contraption ...

It was a mechanical computer, capable, under his command, of executing complex rhythms, temporal structures, and layered textures at extreme speeds and polytempos (simultaneously playing at slightly different speeds), at least after he spent countless hours painstakingly punching tiny holes into paper rolls by hand.

Which he did, to the tune of some 50 Studies for Player Piano, twelve of which were compiled for this 1969 LP, appreciated almost exclusively by music geeks with a taste for the unusual, the peculiar, and the avant-garde ... music geeks like Frank Zappa.

Intentionally sequenced in numerical order, they illustrate how Nancarrow’s skills and ambitions increased exponentially over the years, evolving from the relatively conventional, jazzy simplicity of Study No. 2 to the superhuman note flurries of No. 33.

Jumping to Study No. 7 already multiplies the complexity tenfold; by No. 15, conflicting melodies are jousting to the death, and by No. 21, two or three separate tracks chase each other across the piano roll's paper surface with a violence that should have torn it to shreds.

Skip to Study No. 24, and you'll find seemingly unrelated clusters bouncing against each other in a foreshadowing of video game sound effects, while on No. 25, phantom fingers furiously glissando up and down the keyboard like no appendage ever could.

Be sure you watch the video!

And because you asked, Nancarrow's influence on Zappa's work is most evident on Studies No. 10 and No. 12, where dissonant contrasts reminiscent of musique concrète are stacked at slower tempos and intervals, rather more attainable for human hands to execute.

In many ways, Nancarrow's experiments predated the digital precision of MIDI and Zappa's beloved Synclavier in automating musical creation through technology, while eliminating those pesky, living, breathing musicians from the unrealistic demands of these compositions.

But it also eliminated the possibility of mainstream appeal, so Nancarrow remained confined to obscurity until the '70s and '80s when the avant-garde world "rediscovered" him and propagated his achievements somewhat before his death in 1997 at age 84.

p.s. -- At a time when countless musicians are raging against AI for threatening to, as South Park cartoon characters are wont to say, "take our joerbs!," I think it's good to remember that their ancestors surely made the same complaints about the player piano, but, last I checked, the music industry prospered just the same over the past 100+ years.