Filter: Short Bus
After working with Nine Inch Nails for a few years, Richard Patrick formed his own industrial metal band, Filter. They come out firing with “Hey Man, Nice Shot.” Great song. Enough so that every other song that sounds like it fails to compare and the ones that don’t sound like it don’t seem to fit. For Filter, the emphasis is on heavy: heavy bass lines, heavy drum beats, and heavy distortion on everything. As far as menacing, loud 90s music goes, Filter is fine, but there’s better stuff out there. The album is obscured by the era’s industrial metal scene.
Rating: * * *
Bury Your Dead: It’s Nothing Personal
When you play loud and fast and spend much of your time growling, a name like Bury Your Dead is a prerequisite. You have to look like a thuggish, tattooed freak too. Under no circumstances can you wear a polo shirt. For that matter, it’s best if you avoid bathing for long stretches and encourage fighting among your fans. BYD is another fierce thrash-metal screamo outfit that does nothing to dissuade any stereotypes. The songs never let up, though occasionally a melody surfaces (likely by accident). For the genre, this is acceptable stuff, though it’s not first-thing-in-the-morning music for anyone.
Rating: * *
August Burns Red: Constellations
August Burns Red blazes with fast guitar work, off-rhythm syncopation, and lots and lots of irritating screaming. One source describes their music as “Christian metalcore.” And why not? By why all the screaming? It’s loud and aggressive but not necessarily threatening or the type of thing that is designed to scare children. I don’t sense rage either. They’re not boiling with anger, and they’re not trying to frighten people, so basically they’re just screaming to scream. It’s a gimmick then, much like the Chipmunks who sang with fast-forwarded voices. Yes, August Burns Red, I’ve just compared you to the Chipmunks.
Rating: * *
Dream Theater: Black Clouds and Silver Linings
Twenty years since their debut release and Dream Theater is still cranking out impassioned progressive metal. Even with four of the six songs weighing in at over 10 minutes, these monsters of rock manage to remain fresh. Strains of hair metal or sappy balladry arise here and there, but these tend to interrupt the drawn-out guitar solos. I think the lyrics are thoughtful and insightful, but my attention span is such that I can’t tell you for sure. The whole package likely makes more sense if you have a goatee, own your own double-necked guitar, and prefer cloaks to sweaters.
Rating: * * *
The Devil Wears Prada: With Roots Above and Branches Below
The band’s goal may be to sound as much like a tortured animal as possible. In fact, they manage to replicate machinery at a slaughterhouse—lots of brutal, rhythmic pounding and pained cries. The shouted lyrics are unintelligible gobbledy gook. The guitar riffs that show up at intervals remind us that we are listening to music as does the appearance of a back-up singer with Tom DeLonge’s pinched, nasal style. This album is what teen boys in beat-up Toyota Celicas listen to at high volumes to impress other teen boys as they chug Red Bulls and rev their whiny engines.
Rating: *
