Don’t hold More Than Words against Extreme. No…honestly, they don’t play pop rock. Listen to their masterpiece of a concept album – III Sides To Every Story – and fill that void that stems from the fact that The Alan Parsons Project never got pissed off during the Seventies.
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Lately, Silverchair has apparently gone insane for our pleasure. Diorama and Young Modern hardly rock, and roll even less; instead they mesmerize with erstwhile nods to Porcupine Tree and Nineties’ indie rock. Lead singer Daniel Johns has done one better. Along with the Sydney-based disco punks The Presets, he has formed the terribly addictive indie-pop-rock-trip-whatnot hoppers The Dissociatives.
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The Black Crowes’ Southern Harmony And Musical Companion made them immensely popular on the radio. Their next album Amorica made the radio drink cheap whiskey and cause havoc. Singer Chris Robinson’s inner devil kicked the shit out his inner preacher and gave his brother’s guitar a reason to swagger without a care in this world. One of the finest collection of southern-fried rock gems, if you ask me. Cursed Diamond shines the brightest.
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Stop making fun of The Beatles. They sound preposterously good when John Lennon and George Harrison snarl and gnarl their precious hearts out. Mr Mean Mustard and Glass Onion really should have acquitted them of the sugar-stained sins perpetuated by that McCartney fellow.
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I don’t recommend any Indian rock band because my dad was nice to me during those post-college years. He gave me enough spending money and a nice bike to boot. I say this because it seems impossible to like Indian rock/metal without harboring any irrational ill will towards one’s parents, peers, pet dogs and gasp society. Most of what I have heard so far has been rather juvenile in progression and almost diabetic in its loathsome admiration for Iron Maiden and Metallica. However this is not the harsh truth; it is merely a harsh opinion. I don’t get out much and I don’t remember when I last attended an Indian rock concert. It also doesn’t help that I hate Iron Maiden. I will tell you that I once had much love for four local bands – Acquired Funk Syndrome, Killer Tomatoes, Menwhopause and Bombay Black.
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The Rolling Stones’ Gimme Shelter pales in comparison to Merry Clayton’s blues-tinged version. In other news, Merry Clayton friggin rules. Listen to When The World Turns Blue or I Got Life and have your soul swept under the carpet. She has also sung backup for Ray Charles, Neil Young, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Who and Tori Amos.
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The passionate intensity with which The Dave Matthews Band have crafted the latest Big Whiskey And The Groogrux King album can sadly be attributed to the loss of one of their fallen band members/friends – saxophonist LeRoi Moore. Once again the connection between the listener and the musician is consecrated by common denominators – sadness and anger. When Dave Matthews screams, “Baby when I get home, I wanna believe in Jesus” on the blistering Time Bomb, even the nihilist in me shakes his head and says, “Yeah man, me too.”
Odd Fellows Rest 