Original image by There Stands the Glass.
I was invariably alarmed when classmates in the mid-’70s bragged about their enlistment in the Kiss Army. After they produced fan club membership cards and raved about pyrotechnics and tongue-waggling, I usually assumed the boys took the short bus to school.
The joke’s on me. When I’m in the mood for contemporary forms of the guitar-based music perfected by Chuck Berry more than than 60 years ago, I tend to reach for extreme forms of confrontational rock. Consequently, I occasionally find myself headbanging to black metal by musicians wearing makeup.
Tribulation’s Where Gloom Becomes Sound hits the spot. The melodic new songs by the Swedish band such as "Hour of the Wolf" and "Funeral Pyre" are patently absurd, but I relish the epic riffing and grizzled vocals. I suppose I owe those simpletons from my youth an apology.
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From an alternate reality in which I rejected punk and hip-hop from the get-go, I unabashedly hail Needlepoint’s Walking Up That Valley as a perfect album. The Oslo band’s evocation of precious 1972 prog-rock is spot-on.
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I revisit Bobby Watson’s oddest album at the Kansas City jazz blog Plastic Sax.