Crappy Turntable, Awesome Records

Unleashed: Across the Open Sea (1993)

No one really knew how Stockholm's Unleashed would fit into the already congested 1990s Swedish death metal scene when the they made their debut with '91's Where No Life Dwells, and, chances are, neither did they!

But this had changed by the group's third long-player, '93's Across the Open Sea ...

While peers like Entombed and Dismember were embracing buzzsaw guitars and complex structures, and the Gothenburg School mixed melodies with progressive experiments, Unleashed found their groove -- literally -- in straightforward arrangements and driving, catchy, almighty riffs.

As for their lyrics, Unleashed largely rejected the death metal genre's typical focus on demons, horror, and gore to join a smaller but growing, wide-ranging Viking metal contingent that included Sweden's own elder statesmen, Bathory, and rising Norwegian black metal legends Enslaved, among others.

Said themes invade marauding opener "To Asgaard We Fly" (**), the monstrously-riffed "In the Northern Lands," merciless "Execute Them All," and even the instrumental title track, which breaks up the album's metallic onslaught with eerie keyboards and mournful acoustic guitars.

But they don't pervade every song, making way for religious irony ("I Am God"), mental instability ("The One Insane"), apocalyptic visions ("Forever Goodbye (2045)"), and WWII ("The General") -- plus a surprising death metal cover of Judas Priest's "Breaking the Law."

Also, to be honest, Johnny Hedlund's lyrics were only half as interesting as his fearsome growl, Fredrik Lindgren and Tomas Olsson's crunchy power chords, and Anders Schultz's spare but meaty percussive foundation -- a welcome anomaly in a genre known for exceedingly busy drummers.

In other words, like most Unleashed LPs, Across the Open Sea was largely conceived to buck the most prevalent trends of the Swedish and even the Tampa, FL death metal scenes (centered on Sunlight and Morrisound studios, respectively), not only compositionally but especially from a production standpoint.

That's why it's so ironic that, today, Unleashed are frequently criticized for their simplicity instead of hailed for resisting the prevalent sounds and clichés found in '90s death.

As Hedlund told reporters back in '93, "We specifically wrote the music to come across well during live performances [and] to set Unleashed apart from all the Swedish bands who have their records produced at the Sunlight studio."

The band would double down on their guiding principles for their next opus -- and one of my personal favorites -- '95's Victory; but not before taking their death-defying Viking metal on the road with Morgoth, Tiamat, and Samael in Europe (***) and Cannibal Corpse and Hypocrisy in North America.

* I spent years waiting for a vinyl reissue of Across the Open Sea boasting the original CD cover art, with its Viking longship (see above), but I finally settled for the acceptable composite image of this 2023 pressing instead.

** One of the rare instances where Unleashed incorporated their native Swedish tongue among their English lyrics.

*** Oh, what I would give to have witnessed this line-up!

Juicy Lucy: Get a Whiff a This (1971)

The blues has always embraced a certain amount of bawdy irreverence, dating all the way back to the hokum of the 1920s and '30s, but I think Juicy Lucy missed the point when they chose a crass, puerile title like Get a Whiff a This for their third of four LPs, 55 years ago.

They were hardly alone -- just one year earlier, fellow Brit-blues purveyors Killing Floor named their sophomore album Out of Uranus -- but such choices cheapened an otherwise respectable outfit whose greasy, slide guitar-heavy style briefly competed with better-known acts like Ten Years After and Savoy Brown.

Here's a quick recap of their story ...

Born out of the ashes of cult psych-garage rockers The Misunderstood, Juicy Lucy made an immediate impression with both the music and the cover art (featuring exotic dancer Zelda Plum, naked and covered in fruit) of their eponymous 1969 debut, which brushed the U.K. Top 40.

Their second, 1970's rather vulgar Lie Back and Enjoy It, didn't fare as well but introduced ex-Zoot Money vocalist Paul Williams in place of the departed Ray Owen, plus a young guitarist named Micky Moody, formerly of Tramline and later Whitesnake.

For their third LP, Get a Whiff a This, Juicy Lucy moved from Vertigo to Gerry Bron's newly established Bronze Records (home to Uriah Heep and much later Motörhead) in the U.K. (they remained with Atco in the U.S.), but they didn't seem too sure about where to move their sound.

Would it be towards the born-again R&B of erstwhile psych lords Spirit or the nascent southern rock of the Allman Brothers, whose "Mr. Skin" and "Midnight Rider" (*) were both faithfully covered here?

Would they transform pop fare into boogie like they did Bobby Darin's "Harvest", or go back to the country like so many contemporary groups in search of that elusive, pastoral roots-rock of The Band, as heard on "Mr. A. Jones" and "Sunday Morning"?

Or would they stick to their riff-driven blues fundamentals as evidenced on the excellent "Midnight Sun," while taking judicious detours into neighboring funk and R&B via the red-hot, horn-enhanced "Big Lil" and the soulful, cool-as-a-cucumber grooves of "Future Days"?

Well, the answer turned out to be "none of the above," because subsequent musician defections (namely founding members Glenn Ross Campbell and Chris Mercer) convinced the remaining players to go their separate ways (**) after 1972's aptly-named fourth LP, Pieces.

All these years later, Juicy Lucy are but a footnote in the British blues movement (tough day for England in the World Cup yesterday), and I'm pretty sure they didn't help their long-term historical with the lowbrow sense of humor on these otherwise intriguing albums.

* Another song named "Jessica" has no relation to the Allmans' future instrumental.

** Moody took his trademark mustache and superlative slide guitar skills to Snafu for three records before linking up with David Coverdale for the solo efforts that led into Whitesnake.

Massacra: Enjoy the Violence (1991)

France's Massacra substantiated the extreme metal credentials hinted at by 1990's Final Holocaust debut with their second LP, '91's Enjoy the Violence, which obviously took a swipe at electro-pop gods Depeche Mode to boot.

In fact, they grabbed that nasty sophomore slump fellow by the throat and beat him to a bloody pulp!

Although they hardly deviated from their ferocious sonic trademark -- thrashy death metal laden with apocalyptic themes -- and true originality would never be their forte, Massacra showed improvement in almost every quarter here, backed by cleaner production values.

Their musicianship also stood out in the telepathic interplay between guitarists Fred Duval and Jean-Marc Tristani, the tireless, steamrolling energy of drummer Chris Palengat, and the inhuman growls and steady bottom-end held down by vocalist/bassist Pascal Jürgensen.

Most important of all, standout offerings like the blistering title cut, the gloriously profane "Ultimate Antichrist," and the deliberate, foreboding "Near Death Experience" were far more complex and dynamic than their generally one-dimensional predecessors.

This enhanced diversity was also reflected on the clean-picked intro to "Revealing Cruelty," frantic tempo changes of "Atrocious Crimes," and surprisingly doom-paced "Full of Hatred," all of which suggested that, slowly but surely, broader creative horizons beckoned Massacra.

Whether they actually delivered on that promise with the following year's unfortunately named Signs of Decline LP is a matter of debate (I say "not quite"), but Massacra firmly established themselves among France's best death metal exports (along with the excellent Loudblast) here.

In fact, while it was nowhere near as accomplished as a Sepultura or Entombed record, Enjoy the Silence, was something of a French metal landmark, given that country's very patchy metallic track record, up to that time.

However, much like their once underperforming football team, French heavy metal has sure come a long way in the 21st Century!

Saxon: Rock 'n' Roll Gypsy EP (1986)

A boy sits alone in his darkened room, his radio is tuned to a midnight specialty show that plays heavy metal, when a rare, non-album track by one of his favorite bands splits the darkness ... decades will pass before he hears the song again.

Most people under 40 haven't experienced this kind of "musical trauma" (another common scenario was hearing a great song but not its title or performer's name) in the age of Shazam, streaming music, and countless new ways of enjoying and identifying music.

But in the pre-internet days, one could go for years or forever without solving these kinds of musical mysteries, and I'm pretty sure the song that inspired this blog -- Saxon's 1986 B-side, "Krakatoa" -- was one of the first songs on my Napster bucket list 14 years later.

40 years later, I can tell you the song is not even that special: just a pretty standard Saxon speed metal rager about the Indonesian volcanic island immortalized (and all but annihilated) in 1883 by a cataclysmic eruption whose explosion remains the loudest recorded sound in history.

How METAL is that?

More metal than Saxon's then recent full-length, 1985's Innocence is No Excuse, and this 12-inch single's A-side, "Rock 'n' Roll Gypsy," where the N.W.O.B.H.M. veterans explored a more polished, commercial sound akin to Def Leppard's successful formula in a desperate bid to crack America.

Personally, I loved that record regardless, but it's obvious why "Krakatoa" -- with its take-no-prisoners, double kick drum-powered intensity, reminiscent of 1983's Power and the Glory album -- didn't make the cut, and was instead set aside for a B-side.

And a decade-long "musical trauma" for yours truly, obviously.

So when I found a vintage copy of this once impossible-to-find 12-inch for a pittance a few years ago -- before the now costly vinyl revival -- I promptly added it to my comprehensive Saxon collection, now totaling 31 titles and counting.

Oh, and I almost forgot, but this collectible release also houses a live medley of Saxon fan favorites "Heavy Metal Thunder," "Stand Up and Be Counted," "Taking Your Chances," and "Warrior," likely recorded in 1984 or '85.

I'll wrap this up with the song's descriptive historical lyrics, and with the hope that none of us will ever again have to endure the "musical traumas" of yesteryear.

"To the east of Java back in 1883; Stood a peaceful island basking in the sea; No one knew the danger lying deep beneath the Earth; That Mother Nature's victim would soothe the monster's birth.

Krakatoa!

The earth was rent asunder with a deadly roar; When the dust had settled Krakatoa was no more.

With a scream of fury the power was released; The biggest known explosion the world had ever seen; The shockwaves traveled 'round the Earth to smash the Richter Scale; The tidal wave that followed left death and desolation in it's trail.

Krakatoa!

The earth was rent asunder with a deadly roar; When the dust had settled Krakatoa was no more.

Blasting chunks of magma into the stratosphere; A thousand scarlet sunsets, the land a sea of fear; To the east of Java basking in the sea; The sign of Krakatoa is rising from the deep.

Krakatoa!

The earth was rent asunder with a deadly roar; When the dust had settled Krakatoa was no more.

Krakatoa!"

Maypole: Maypole (1971)

Dig this cover art ...VERY psychedelic!

Maypole hailed from Baltimore, MD, where they were formed in 1969 by Dennis Tobell (lead guitar), Steve Mace (rhythm guitar), John Nickel (bass), Paul Welsh (drums), and Kenny Ross (lead vocals), with all five members contributing harmony vocals.

Clearly swept up by the Summer of Love, the group matched its chimerical front cover with a rear sleeve essay tying the maypole's historical legacy of rebellion against puritan repression via classical Greek philosophers like Plato and The Beatles' musical revolution.

That's quite a reach, but did I mention it WAS the Summer of Love?

However, by the time this self-titled LP arrived in 1971, summer had decidedly turned to autumn, maybe even winter, and not even the added influences of Cream, The Doors, and Jimi Hendrix could modernize Maypole's sound to suit fast-changing times.

Moreover, said album (sometimes retitled 'The Real' for latter-day CD and vinyl reissues) was released through independent, under-funded Colossus Records, whose sole significant discovery during a brief existence was Dutch group The Shocking Blue.

Although, even a major label would have been challenged to promote an album that announced its presence with a pair nine-minute epics -- unless that group was named Yes, King Crimson, or ELP and produced sophisticated progressive rock instead of meandering acid rock.

In Maypole's case, the opening "Glance at the Past/Show Me the Way/Henry Stared" is less a unified suite than three songs strung together and set adrift in a sea of psychedelic currents, bound to slip the mind as soon as they slip over the horizon or beneath the waves.

And the second, "Changes Places/Under a Wave," is only marginally better (*), thanks to memorable moments like the first's distorted riffs and Tobell's agile fretwork and the second's saturnine melodies and a chorus based on The Sound of Music's "Climb Ev'ry Mountain"!

The remaining songs are of conventional size, but generally forgettable, except for the driving "Look at Me," the unusually tight "Dozy World," and a final, melancholy mini-epic called "Stand Alone"; still nothing here stands apart from so many bands of the day. (**)

And despite these flashes of lucidity, Maypole's first and final album largely feels like a rudderless, derelict vessel of castaways, lacking direction, discipline, and the necessary arranging skills to harness their undeniable talent, chops, and wide-ranging ideas into a cohesive work.

Adding insult to injury, Colossus collapsed shortly after the album's release, so a desperate Maypole briefly relocated to Holland in 1972 -- presumably to leverage some local buzz related to their former label's other successes -- but returned and broke up the same year.

In 2008, a second Maypole LP consisting of previously unreleased studio sessions recorded in Miami between '71 and '74 was released under the title Falling Angels, but based on the inconsistent contents of this debut, I have no plans to seek it out.

* At its best, it reminds me of Danish contemporaries Pan.

** Think a poor man's Spirit.

Wolfsbane: Down Fall the Good Guys (1991)

Rick Rubin's career-crippling production botch-job on Wolfsbane's debut album, 1989's Live Fast, Die Fast, clouded the fact that the Tamworth-based quartet named after a deadly toxic genus of flowering plants could have been the U.K.'s answer to Van Halen. 

Not Van Hagar, mind you, but the original Van Halen, which is why Iron Maiden's subsequent decision to hire Wolfsbane singer Blaze Bayley to replace Bruce Dickinson sounds as viable as asking David Lee Roth to sing "The Number of the Beast." 

But I digress ...

Fortunately, enlisting a young Brendan O'Brien to record 1990's All Hells Breaking Loose at Little Kathy Wilson's Place EP remedied most of the band's sonic issues and assured his return for the next year's Down Fall the Good Guys, with similarly stellar results.

Unfortunately, excellent production can't always guarantee excellent record sales, and this sophomore full-length's title proved all-too-prophetic of the public's tepid response and resulting loss of their Def American contract, which made Bayley ripe for the plucking.

What a shame, because guitar shredder Jase Edwards knew almost every lick in EVH's pyrotechnic bag of tricks (if not his inimitable "Brown Sound") and, when paired with Bayley's lupine howls, this turned songs like "Twice as Mean," "Cathode Ray Clinic," and "The Loveless" into fun-loving, over-the-top VH tributes.

Other standouts like "You Load Me Down," "Black Lagoon," and the near-perfect "Smashed and Blind" deliver a less derivative, yet equally explosive, metallic neutrality, and there's a sub-"Paradise City" anthemic quality to both "Broken Doll" and "After Midnight."

But "Temple of Rock" and "Dead at Last" are a couple of head-bangers too many, "Ezy" is a throwaway single, and "Moonlight" an ill-fitting acoustic love song, which, all together, helped stall Wolfsbane's UK-bred VH master plan before it could take proper shape.

I also find it tantalizing to wonder what those debut album barnstormers might sound like if O'Brien could be bothered (or affordable enough) to remix them along the same aesthetic lines as this LP and its preceding EP.

But we'll probably never know because there are no do-overs in life (well, few of them anyway), and I'll argue that Wolfsbane's career was dead and dusted even before their self-titled third LP arrived in '94, just prior to Bayley's defection to Iron Maiden.

I guess good guys really do finish last ...

Eddie Floyd: "Knock On Wood" / "Got to Make a Comeback" (1966)

Just about 60 long years ago, what started as a typical songwriting and recording session at Stax Records' famed Memphis headquarters turned into a pillar of the Soulsville U.S.A. catalog, and one of the defining, most enduring anthems of '60s soul music.

I'm talking about Eddie Floyd's Gold-certified "Knock On Wood," which went to No. 1 on the Soul Singles Chart, peaked at No. 28 on the Billboard Hot 100, and has since been covered by over 100 artists, from Amii Stuart (*), to Cher, to David Bowie, to Michael Bolton.

Not bad for an unproven singer with just a few singles under his belt and better known for co-writing hits for fellow artists like Wilson Pickett, Carla Thomas, and Otis Redding, until a series of happy accidents finally led to this timeless hit's release in the summer of 1966.

Let me back up a bit ...

As the story goes, "Knock On Wood" was born of an informal, late-night jam between Floyd and Booker T. & The M.G.'s guitarist Steve Cropper at Memphis' now historic Lorraine Motel (**), during which a severe thunderstorm rolled overhead.

Nature's fury combined with Floyd and Cropper's initial lyrics about bad luck in love and superstition ("I don't wanna lose your love / I better knock on wood") to inspire the famous opening lines: "It's like thunder, lightning / The way you love me is frightening ..."

Promptly cut on July 13, 1966 (***) by Floyd and the M.G.'s -- Cropper, Booker on keys, Donald 'Duck' Dunn on bass, and Al Jackson Jr. on drums -- the song's slow-burning groove coasts over sharp rhythm guitar stabs and horn charts crafted by Isaac Hayes with Wayne Jackson (trumpet) and Andrew Love (tenor sax) of The Mar-Keys.

For its part, Floyd's gritty, soulful delivery doesn't float over the rhythm section so much as punch right through it; but maybe the most memorable moment comes when Jackson mimics someone knocking on a door with his signature rim-shots during the chorus.

It's one of those simple, clever, spontaneous creative ideas that defined the uncomplicated genius of Stax's greatest productions.

And yet, label president Jim Stewart shelved the recording for months, feeling it was too similar to Pickett's "In the Midnight Hour" (****), until finally being persuaded to release it by Atlantic's Jerry Wexler and covert radio spins attained by Stax's national promotion director, Al Bell.

Luckily, once the discs were finally ordered from the pressing plant, there was a quality B-side called "Got to Make a Comeback" (conveniently recorded on the same day by the same crew) awaiting in the vaults.

A gorgeous, pleading, minimalist soul ballad about waging a political campaign back into a lover's heart, this showcases a smoother, more vulnerable side of Floyd -- his gospel roots -- and provides an ideal counterweight for the "stormy" A-side.

Floyd never enjoyed another hit of this magnitude, but he came close with 1967's "Raise Your Hand" (No. 16), '68's "I've Never Found a Girl (To Love Me Like You Do)" (No. 2) and "Bring it On Home to Me" (No. 4), and he remained with Stax until its bankruptcy in 1976.

More importantly, Eddie Floyd is still with us at age 89 (and, knock on wood, will still be for a long time); one of the precious few surviving Stax legends from that golden age at Soulsville U.S.A.

* Amii's 1978 disco version also went to No. 1 and became this eight-year-old boy's favorite song for a hot minute after he watched its special effects-enhanced music video, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, on a Sunday night variety TV show on Brazilian TV.

** Sadly immortalized as the site of Dr. Martin Luther King's murder, a couple of years later, the Lorraine Motel was a favorite stop and unofficial "creative clubhouse" for artists recording at Stax.

*** Sorry to burst your bubble, but this was a Wednesday, not a Friday the 13th -- I checked!

**** Largely because Floyd and Cropper had taken the "In the Midnight Hour" horn section, flipped it backwards, and incorporated it into their arrangement for "Knock On Wood."

The Move: Message from the Country (1971)

Message from the Country?

More like "Message from the Funny Farm"!

The Move's fourth and final full-length was released 55 years ago, confusingly after Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne had announced their plans to form a new, "experimental rock-with-strings" project, called the Electric Light Orchestra, whose debut would follow in December.

While this served as both a swan song and a proving ground for what was yet to come, it was hardly the roots-music exercise inspired by The Band that its title suggests, let alone a cohesive musical or conceptual 'message'; instead, it was an eclectic, fractious affair.

One year prior, Wood and drummer Bev Bevan had welcomed fellow Brummie Lynne (ex-The Idle Race) into The Move largely to fulfill contractual obligations with both their label and management (the fearsome Don Arden), to free them to pursue these novel ambitions.

But the end results sound simultaneously relaxed and chaotic, liberated and unhinged, as Jeff's Beatles-esque pop-rock songcraft ("The Minister," "The Words of Aaron") clashed with Roy's relentless, often tongue-in-cheek genre-hopping ("Ella James," "Until Your Mama's Gone").

One of my favorites, Wood's paranoid, unnerving "It Wasn't My Idea to Dance" -- with its doomy, grinding bass, gothic minor chords, and reedy oboe performed by the man himself -- is as close as this line-up came to the band that recorded 1970's Shazam and Looking On.

Another, Lynne's progressive, wistful title track does, in fact, deliver the pastoral idyll promised, but backs it with stacks of multi-tracked acoustic and electric guitars, while "No Time" boasts an eerie atmosphere and multi-tracked recorders performed by Wood.

But I don't particularly care for unintended novelty numbers like "Ben Crawley Steel Co." (a Country & Western satire featuring Bevan growling a Johnny Cash-like baritone), the vintage rock revival of "Don't Mess Me Up" (where Wood hams it up like The King), and Lynne's music-hall throwaway "My Marge."

As with all Move LPs, it's a lot to take in, and for all their shared love of classical music and classic rock & roll, it's hard to imagine a pair of strong, Type-A personalities like Wood and Lynne coexisting for very long, no matter what their group was called.

So few people were surprised when Lynne and Bevan stuck with ELO, going on to sell millions of albums after a slow start, while Wood resurfaced with Wizzard and immediately notched two U.K. No. 1s and five Top 5 hits before going ice-cold and sinking into obscurity.

But The Move's brief, turbulent, idiosyncratic career trajectory not only certified Roy's genius, but also his long-term cult status among serious music gourmands for whom Lynne's string-laden ELO and high-profile production work was far too mainstream.

p.s. -- Depending on which side of the Atlantic you bought this LP, it came with different cover artwork (Roy painted the European version; mine is the U.S. version), track sequencing, and even labels: Harvest in the U.K. and Capitol in the U.S.

Enuff Z'Nuff: Paraphernalia (1999)

Purple, violet, indigo, pink: my standard male-pattern color blindness makes a moot point out of memorizing the official colors that complete the rainbow (it's indigo, then violet), but that won't stop me from celebrating all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community.

Pride Month 2026 wraps up tomorrow and some of you may well be saying "enough is enough" but not me, nor the Chicago power pop revivalists known as Enuff Z'Nuff, who released arguably their finest independent album in 1999's Paraphernalia.

Their eighth overall and fifth after parting ways with Atco, then Arista (shout out to Clive Davis, who died last week), the record came out in Japan in 1998, through local powerhouse Pony Canyon Records, but followed in '99 in the U.S. through Spitfire.

Its recording process was sadly symptomatic of the group's chaotic career over the second half of the '90s, which saw mainstays Donnie Vie (vocals, guitar) and Chip Z'Nuff (bass), plus drummer Ricky Parent, juggling guitarists until landing on Johnny Monaco in '97.

By their standards, hanging onto Monaco for two (eventually four) consecutive albums was quite a feat; but that didn't stop the band from enlisting three Illinois legends to lend their six-string talents, namely Cheap Trick's Rick Nielsen, Styx's James 'JY' Young, and the Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan!

Too bad these friends in high places weren't going to be enough (or should I say "enuff)" to lift Enuff Z'Nuff out of the "Big in Japan" cult category, but it did inspire some of their most satisfying, diverse, and also focused collection in years.

Infectious highlights like "Ain't it Funny," "Save Me," and opener "Freak" (which was refreshingly NOT about grunge-favored stereotypes like nerds, geeks, or losers but actual circus freaks) recall the "glory days" (that weren't) of 'the'91's magnificent Strength.

Well, almost.

Meanwhile, bittersweet torch songs like "Believe in Love," "Loser of the World," and "Someday" elevate the melancholy quotient while sprinkling psychedelic flower petals amidst Chip and Donnie's signature Beatles-esque melodies.

Unfortunately, the somewhat tuneless "Top of the Hill" sounds like bad Stone Temple Pilots and the quality control declines during the album's second half ("Invisible," "All Alone," etc.), except for a spirited cover of Trick's "Everything Works if You Let It."

Still, for all intents and purposes, Paraphernalia was both a respectable return to form and, sadly, one of the last gasps of respectability for these lovable underdogs, before driving force Vie flew the coop five years later, leaving Chip to lead a farcical facsimile.

Fact is, Enuff Z'Nuff were doomed to be misunderstood, both during the late '80s' hair metal heyday and the '90s' grunge era, which I suppose is a bizarre accomplishment in its own way and a fair representation of "Freak's" poignant lyrics:

"All alone ... With nowhere to call home; There's nothing waiting anywhere for me;

My life's a waste; Denied a pretty face; And no one's lookin' deep enough to see.

Everything is beautiful; And shines in it's own way; The prettier the uglier they'll be; And a likely substitute for love ... Is always empathy.

You'll see ... the freak. I'm the freak. Yeah, nobody wants to know me; I'm the freak."

35007: Sea of Tranquility EP (2001)

I had to use one of those fancy cell phone photo filters (try saying that real fast) to highlight this 10-inch's "dark blue transparent marble" wax, and thus keep my rainbow vinyl streak alive in support of Pride Month 2026 and all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community.

As I wrote in my All-Music Guide review, some 25 years ago: "They say necessity is the mother of invention, and that maxim certainly applies to Dutch experimental rockers 35007 and their 2001 EP, Sea of Tranquility."

For the uninitiated, the band's name, turned upside-down, spells "LOOSE."

After recording two, relatively "standard" stoner rock LPs, the group had been rudely "relieved" of their van and musical equipment during a tour of Italy, prompting vocalist Eeuwout Baart to give his notice in frustration ... and he only lost a few microphones!

So guitarist Bertus Fridael, keyboardist Mark Sponselee, bassist Michel Boekhoudt, and drummer Sander Evens decided to turn their loss into a gain and embarked on a new career phase as a fully instrumental proposition, enhanced with atmospheric electronics and a Krautrock sensibility.

Fittingly, they looked beyond Earth's atmosphere for inspiration for the space-themed Sea of Tranquility EP, paying tribute to German rocket scientist Wernher "Von Braun" with cryptic dialog counting down to ignition of the song's titanic hypno-riffs and swirling synth effects.

Next up, the suddenly very topical "Artificial Intelligence," sees Fridael and the rhythm section locking into a relentless, repetitive, almost robotic groove, over which diaphanous wisps of slide guitar zip across the horizon like clouds in the jet stream.

And on the EP-closing title track, we float weightlessly like astronauts atop soothing, low-gravity Mellotron, with only the haunting dialog of the Apollo 11 crew and cyclical heavy rock riff punctuations to puncture the song's eerie, lunar reverie.

It was this cut, more than any other, that really set the tone for 35007's imminent transformation into the trance-inducing ambient experience responsible for 2002's spectacular Liquid, which as you can imagine, swapped outer space for a suitably fluid H2O theme.

Looking back now, I believe this 10-inch and 12-inch combo comprise the sum total of 35007's essential output, but don't let that stop you from exploring their voice-enabled releases (I did once) if you feel the need to get even more loose.

Coroner: Dissonance Theory (2025)

What was your favorite heavy metal album of 2025?

Mine was Coroner's Dissonance Theory: a comeback 30 years in the making by one of the few metal bands that's never put out a bad record and arguably just got better and better with each of their first five studio LPs, now augmented by a sixth impeccable musical chapter.

Just over a year ago, the Swiss power trio famously made up of Celtic Frost roadies, guitarist Tommy Vetterli, vocalist/bassist Ron Broder, and drummer Marky Edelmann -- now replaced by Diego Rappachietti --came through Nashville on a wholly unexpected reunion tour.

The show was everything I could have hoped for and more ...

Because one is so rarely faced with so much instrumental brilliance AND artistic integrity AND such a surgical musical decapitation at the hands of perhaps history's greatest progressive thrash metal band -- often referred to as "the Rush of thrash."

Dissonance Theory is an accurate description for ALL Coroner LPs, as these have always pushed the limits of metallic extremity against hard-won melodic elements in such a way as to accentuate the group's compositional inventiveness and amplify eventual epiphanies.

So it stands to reason that Coroner would pick up where they left off over three decades earlier, with twin crowning achievements, Mental Vortex (1991) and Grin ('93), and fuse the the former's dazzlingly elaborate techno-thrash with the latter's mid-tempo dread-grooves.

The result is a master-class in controlled violence and intellectual depth, as standout after standout ("Crisium Bound," "Symmetry," "Transparent Eye," "Renewal") is propelled by Rappachietti's clockwork precision and Vetterli's razor-sharp virtuosity, about which an entire thesis could be written.

Co-producer Dennis Russ contributes integral synths that never upset Coroner's clinical tripodal balance (with the possible exception of his organ solo on the superfluous coda, "Prolonging"), and robotic voices (reminiscent of Cynic) bring a sci-fi sheen to "Consequence."

But, elsewhere, it's always Broder's cynical bark eviscerating religion ("Sacrificial Lamb"), tyrants ("The Law"), and nuclear apocalypse ("Trinity") with a cold, emphatic wisdom, while his bass lines possess a mind of their own, rarely following the guitar's lead.

Heck, even the album's "mandatory metal intro," "Oxymoron," isn't wasted and conveys true industrial terror; teeing up the rest of the record and the crystal-clear, bone-shattering mix delivered by studio wizard Jens Bogren (Opeth, Kreator, Katatonia, etc.).

Man, it's hard writing about music you're totally obsessed with!

But I've done my best, and I'll close by celebrating Coroner's unique and unmistakable musical DNA, because most bands -- even some of the bands I love best -- still sound like other bands, but Coroner sounds only like Coroner and NO other band sounds like Coroner.

Spirit Caravan: Jug Fulla Sun (1999)

With Spirit Caravan and their first output, 1999's Jug Fulla Sun, Scott 'Wino' Weinrich further cemented his place atop the American doom and stoner rock pyramids, following his already quasi-legendary exploits with Saint Vitus and The Obsessed.

But it sure wasn't easy ...

Only five years earlier, The Obsessed had signed with mighty Columbia Records and seemed on the verge of a major breakthrough with '94's The Church Within LP, only to join numerous fellow metal bands (Carcass, Kreator, etc.) in a grunge-affected corporate purge.

Burnt out and disillusioned, Wino endured homelessness, drug addiction, and serious health issues in Los Angeles, before returning to his Maryland stomping grounds and launching a new band called Shine with bassist/vocalist Dave Sherman and drummer Gary Isom.

But then, just as they were starting to attract indie label interest, resulting in '97's "Lost Sun Dance" single, a pop-rock group laid claim to the Shine moniker, and so the name Spirit Caravan was conjured up to represent the project's developing cosmic and psychedelic themes.

The resulting Jug Fulla Sun effectively bridged this transitional period with material held over from both Shine ("Lost Sun Dance," "Powertime") and The Obsessed's final days ("Fear's Machine," "Melancholy Grey"), as well as several brand-new Wino classics.

These included twin-tempo opener "Healing Tongue," fuzz guitar-swept acid rocker "Cosmic Artifact," hypno-hallucinatory doom epic "Dead Love/Jug Fulla Sun," and the hilarious "Kill Ugly Naked," which may just be my all-time-favorite Wino hardcore sprint.

Last but not least came the imaginative, acoustic-accented grooves of "No Hope Goat Farm," and Sherman (R.I.P.) took his de rigueur turn at the mic for the grinding "Fang," which foreshadowed the glass-gargling credentials he would soon showcase by fronting Earthride.

But, for now, Spirit Caravan remained his priority, as it would Wino's for the same year's Dreamwheel EP, 2001's sophomore full-length Elusive Truth, and multiple U.S. and European tours to support them, until the band's internal chemistry started to deteriorate.

This, along with Wino's souring worldview in the wake of 9/11 and major personal events like becoming a father contributed to Spirit Caravan's break-up in 2002 and his decision to form the politicized Hidden Hand, conveniently in his Maryland backyard.

However, while it lasted, Spirit Caravan was arguably my favorite Wino project of them all, and I still remember an electrifying set they played at Brooklyn's long gone North Six club in April of 2002 (*), just weeks before this Philly show and their final breakup.

* On a mighty stoner rock bill alongside Place of Skulls, Alabama Thunderpussy, Orange Goblin, and -- talk about an outlier -- Japanese black metal originals Sigh!

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 ...