Myrath: progressive metal music from Tunisia

Each one of us (or at least each one of us with a soul) can recite the bands and music we love.

Personally, I’ve been a big Maiden fan and heavy metal lover ever since I heard Iron Maiden’s Fear Of The Dark album 20 years ago. On top of that I’ve also been a fan of electronic music — predominantly industrial and its many offshoots — for the last 10 or so years.

I say that because I feel it’s a bit funny how those who may not know you so well may be surprised to find that the music you make all that noise about isn’t quite so close to your heart as the band that you’ve loved since you were 10. Yes, this is quite common. By virtue of the fact that you haven’t been ranting and raving incessantly about how wonderful your life-long favourite band is, others may think that the bands you do go on about incessantly are really what you love most. The last time this happened to me was at a black metal gig, where an acquaintance from countless EBM / industrial club nights was astounded to see me in my Iron Maiden jacket.

 My pride and joy.

Confused yet? Put it this way. Newer bands, new discoveries and hot new things inevitably get talked about (unless it’s Classic FM) wheras the old stuff isn’t ignored, just ingrained.

I can only speak for myself, but I also feel that the older you get, the harder it is to easily get really excited by so much new music. Yeah, I’m old and grey and I wish those damn kids would get off my lawn — but take a second to read the first point in this terrifying Cracked.com argument that tries to explain why all new music will suck once you hit a certain age.

So there are bands we love and naturally there are bands we hate. In alternative music scenes in particular I’ve noticed a phenomenon whereby the artists that bring out the most vitriol in us tend not to be the clearly recognisable “enemy” — commercial R&B, or anything that takes out one of the top three spots on a TV talent show.

I’ve always noticed — and I’ll conceded that I’ve been guilty of this once or twice — that it’s the artists that are most similar to the ones we love, rather than the diametric opposites, that bring out the worst. Usually this has something to do with “selling out” or being commercially successful. Metallica, Slipknot, Dimmu Borgir, Marilyn Manson, Disturbed, Korn and Cradle Of Filth all make music that is undeniably heavy, anti-mainstream and very much NOT pop music. Yet I've inevitably found that the legions of people who dislike these bands tend to hate them with far more vigour than would ever be reserved for (the affronts to good music that are) One Direction, Reece Mastin and Bieber.

And yet, you will never hear Slipknot or Cradle Of Filth on my local metropolitan commercial pop music station, 101.9 Fox FM (i.e. 101.9 this sucks). So it’s all in the eye of the beholder I suppose.

So there are bands we love. There are bands we love to hate. There are lots of bands that are quickly forgotten because they’re somewhere in the middle and they struggle to register over the strength of these powerful emotions. And occasionally there are bands that may not be one’s cup of tea but are nonetheless worth further exploration because they make music, or stand for something, that is inherently cool.

Myrath is one such band I recently stumbled upon. They’re a new progressive metal band from Tunisia of all places and they play an interesting blend of prog metal laced with liberal lashings of traditional oriental or folk sounds. Oriental folk that is. Oriental progressive folk metal maybe?

Personally, the Myrath sound doesn’t blow me away (although it does grow a little each time) but then again most prog metal doesn’t excite me. Personal taste I guess. However, fans of melodic prog metal may find something out of the usual box here. Check out the video below to see what I mean.

Someone please get them to do the music for whatever comes next in the Prince Of Persia franchise.

One thing which in my view sets them apart is, as I said, the fact that they come from Tunisia. Firstly, this gives them a moral license to play that distinct oriental sound, on top of what is most likely also a decent understanding of how it’s meant to be played, where other bands would flounder in sticky cheesiness; secondly, their heavy metal badass cred instantly goes up by several notches, what with Tunisia being where that little event known as the Arab Spring — an event which swept across half the Arab world — caught fire in 2010. Myrath lead singer Zaher Zorgatti kind of put things in perspective in a 2011 interview with Terrorizer magazine about Myrath’s (recent) Tales Of The Sands album: “That period was chaos,” he said. “Everybody was watching his neighbourhood for bad members of the old regime, and many people were killed at that time. And I was thinking about recording the album — how we would manage to finish the recording session.”

Let me state for the record that the true universal spirit of metal does not care where you’re from, what you look like, and all that — but busting your balls to record and release an album while people you know are getting killed in a country where there's a bona fide revolution going is as metal as it gets.

Finally, Myrath appear to be generally switched on in this age of instant digital gratification (except for the Twitter page maybe). I suspect that the bands that regularly update their digital presence with even half-digestible content are doing their fans and therefore themselves a big favour. For instance, videos that are a bit out of the ordinary but unlikely to appear on a ‘regular’ release tend to get the fans interested. Here’s an example…

Ok smartarse, I realise it's actually a Tarja Turunen concert. But say what you like about the
alleged prima donna antiques of the former Nightwish singer, her voice is bloody amazing.

So check out Myrath if you like your metal proggy and exotic. As I said, it doesn’t blow me into space because prog metal just isn't my thing. But if that sound is your cup of Tunisian mint tea I'd definitely soak this up.

Manowar: Gods Of War (is the worst best Manowar album ever)

A while back I mentioned how I once suffered from a lapse of judgement when I purchased a bulk lot of 500 CDs in the mistaken belief that I’d either make a killing on eBay or add considerably to my personal collection. Oh wait, did I say one 500-CD lot? I meant two.

I did sell a modest proportion of those CDs, but with the arse end of the physical media market permanently caved in I later found it very difficult to sell a last bunch of 75 remaining releases. I asked around and it turns out a workmate’s wife had some luck selling some old vinyl to Dixon’s Recycled music stores, so I thought I’d see if my local outlet was interested.

I went there without any actual music on me — my objective was simply to duck in quickly to see if they were prepared to give me a quote at a later date. Naturally, after entering the store — which as I just said, I did becuase I needed to find out if I could make money by selling CDs — I promptly left half an hour later with $49 of second hand CDs on me. Namely the follwoing releases: Celtic Frost — To Mega Therion; Hocico — Memorias Atrás ; Black Sabbath — War Pigs; and Sanguinary Misanthropia — Diabolic Gnosis (a dubious purchase as I found out).
And then there was this little gem: Manowar’s — Gods Of War album. The tenth Manowar album by the most metal of heavy metal bands and, depending on who you ask, possibly the worst album in the entire Manowar discography.

 This is the album cover. As you can see, it’s got everything you could possibly want in a divine warrior-themed heavy metal concept album. There are swords, demons, nekkid chicks… even the title is in runic. That's as metal as it gets!

MANOWAR, HEAVY METAL, AND WAGNER

The thing about Manowar albums these days (or these years, what with the five-year gap between this album and their previous effort, Warriors Of The World) is that they never do things by half measures. You can rest assured that these relatively recent Manowar songs will have nothing but exemplary production, superb musicianship, and technical cohesion worthy of any world-class heavy metal band. The problem, unfortunately, to quote a good friend here, is that “Manowar used to be good until they disappeared up their own arses.”

Don’t get me wrong, I think there are a few (the operative word here being “few”) awesome Manowar songs on this album. It’s just unfortunate that Manowar are now a heavy metal band that, when they get it right, they do quite well — but when they get it wrong, they get it spectacularly wrong.

Manowar - Gods Of War I feel is the product of a successful band that managed to loose the plot a long time despite enjoying a strong cult following. Consequently, there are some seriously divided opinions on sites like Metal Archives (yes, I realise Metal Archives reviews are only slightly more credible than YouTube comments, but it does serve to illustrate how Gods Of War is one of those "either love it or hate it" albums).

The main complaint about the Gods Of War album is the fact that there are way, way, way too many cheesy wannabe-operatic interludes, intros, outros, middle bits, pre-middle bits, pre-outros… For example, the opening track, Overture To The Hymn Of The Immortal Warriors, consists of a painfully cheesy classic orchestra, interspersed with an equally cheesy choir which then breaks into… more cheesy classic orchestra and equally cheesy choirs! This goes for six minutes and twenty seconds. When track two, The Ascension, finally kicks in, it turns out to be… another cheesy classic intro! This one goes for a further two minutes and thirty seconds, albeit with some added spoken word. The point being, there's not a riff to be heard for almost nine minutes.

At long last, track three, Kings Of Kings, fires up. I actually think it's one of the better Manowar songs to date, a power metal anthem in the best sense, with enough riffing and headbanging to almost make you forget the painful opening eight minutes and fifty seconds. But then, just when you think this Manowar album is about to kick into top gear, the song concludes with… another cheesy, crappy little symphonic track.

And so on it goes throughout this whole Manowar album. Like the 'improved' fan-made edit of Star Wars - Episode I which cuts out Jar Jar Binks, so too could Gods Of War be re-released as a solid heavy metal album with a double digital number of minutes removed.
Alas, the peculiar arrangement of the Gods Of War album is entirely deliberate. It's meant to be the first of several Manowar concept albums about mythological war gods (Norse mythology in this instance). Manowar’s famous singer, Eric Adams, is apparently a big Richard Wagner fan and Gods Of War attempts to (kind of) emulate the gigantic four-part formula of Wagner’s Ring Cycle — an opera so ridiculously epic that it has to be performed over four consecutive nights, seeing as the whole thing goes for no less than 15 hours.

And therein lies the problem. My grandfather, who loved classical music, was fond of the following quote: “Wagner has lovely moments but awful quarters of an hour.”

I reckon that’s spot-on for Gods Of War too. There are awesome moments. It’s just that they’re interspersed among so much rubbish.
But you know what? I try to see a good side to every underground or alternative music album I get my hands on. Yes, I still buy CDs. And Gods Of War does contain some genuinely awesome moments which means I am almost prepared to forgive Manowar for their many other moments of extreme self-indulgence.

Almost…

So you're listening to your copy of Gods Of War and you want to check out the CD booklet. You open it and find this band photo. Ok, there's nothing unusual here, they're a conservative heavy metal band, in the sense that you'd never see these guys with short hair or doing a guest appearance on an album that didn't contain guitar solos (although singer Eric Adams did perform the full Phantom Of The Opera at the theatre... no, really) .

Suppose you want to, like, oh I dunno, actually read the lyrics on the album you legitimately purchased? Turn the page and you get… what? The lyrics are in freakin’ runic! Oh no wait, you think… that’s just some artwork. It has to be some kind of pretentious intro, in line with the rest of the album’s other pretentious intros and many in-between filler tracks. The real lyrics must surely start over the next page and…

What the hell is this (click the pic to get a closer look)?!? Are these supposed to be the LYRICS!? How the hell am I supposed to decipher this? I just want to read the lyrics on this album which I didn’t steal from the internet because I actually spent money on it. Who the hell do Manowar think they are?!

Good Lord! The ENTIRE album booklet is in RUNIC! Including the bloody thank you notes! Look at it! They’ve provided the runic translation for terms like “vocals” and “bass” and… I have absolutely no idea what the rest of the page says BECAUSE IT’S IN FREAKIN’ RUNIC!

Oh, a translation! I guess I can now start translating... terms like “we’re a bunch of total douchenozzles”. Screw you Manowar, pull your freakin heads out of your arses. I will NEVER forgive yo.

Caption this photo

I invite you to leave a caption for this image in the comments section below.

I like this photo because I think it’s kinda funny. There’s actually a perfectly legitimate reason for the gas mask… Here’s what’s going on…

CAPTION HERE.

My fiancée and I live on a suburban rental property which we reckon was built in the ’70s or ’60s. It’s a two-bedroom weatherboard house that was built in the typical style for the time. Its age means there’s occasionally a leaking window (and let’s not forget the misaligned stumps that cause ping pong balls to accumulate in corners) but apart from those minor quirks we reckon it’s more than cosy enough for us to think of it as our home.

There’s only one real bugbear. Not long after we’d moved in it was brought to our attention that the walls in the toilet (this being an extension) most likely contained asbestos. Though it’s hard to believe nowadays, asbestos was once a very common building material, and it was especially popular in Australia in the form of fibro sheeting and other products.

Thankfully, I’m told a large proportion of the asbestos used in construction that’s most commonly encountered (which I believe comes from so-called white asbestos) isn’t bad for you provided it remains undisturbed. That is, it’s dangerous only if it disperses its miniscule toxic particles, such as if you were to drill or cut into the stuff. Hence, its reputation as the bane of home renovators.

So there I was, doing a very good impression of appearing to be a knowledgeable gardener on my new veggie patch (all five pot plants worth) when I came across something strange. I was digging a hole for some food scraps when suddenly I hit something vaguely solid, buried around 10cm under the grass in our backyard.

At first I thought what any normal person in my position would think, namely, that I’d unearthed a forgotten back yard treasure. However, panic set in when I poked the stuff with my trowel and noticed a crumbly-looking, pale-ish, fibrous kind of material.

Once again, I thought what any sane person in my situation would think. Namely, “Oh my God, what if I’ve just inhaled asbestos fibres!?”’

My first step was to look it up on the web, hence my extensive knowledge of asbestos disposal treatment from all of five minutes’ worth of checking the web. That’s how I unearthed (see what I did there?) the information presented to you previously.

I quickly calmed down when I realised that my chances of contracting a long-term asbestos-related disease were greatly reduced. I ‘breathed a sigh of relief’ (did it again). But what to do?

First, I had to dispose of that toxic waste. And did I have the solution!

I am the proud owner of the genuine Warsaw Pact-era gas mask that you see in the photo — if anyone can identify the make or model I’d be very grateful. It’s proudly displayed on top of our DVD shelf, ready for use at a moment’s notice for when the Huns pre-empt their major summer offensive with a chlorine gas artillery bombardment.

I know it works because I previously used the gas mask in a potentially lethal field trial. A flatmate had adopted a stray kitten and while the cat was dearly loved, its cat box rarely received adequate human attention. Instead, the flatmate simply kept piling more kitty litter on top the old stuff. Sure enough, the cat litter box reached the critical overflow point, and yours truly somehow got suckered into changing the whole thing.

I vaguely recall the decision to volunteer me was made after the contents of the cat box were disturbed in an attempted clean out, whereupon the intensely choking smell of cat urine drove everyone from the room. I kid you not, my flatmate was dry reaching (either that or it was part of a convincing act to get me to do the dirty work). Then I struck upon the idea of using my gas mask and, would you believe, I was then leisurely able to go about my business.

Another time, I went to this party which I was told was full fancy dress. I dressed up in every piece of military attire I could find and just before knocking on the door I put on my gas mask. The door was opened by a very surprised looking host who, after recovering from the astonishment that comes from opening the door and being greeted by a strange man in a camouflage uniform and gas mask, conceded that actually no, it wasn’t really a fancy dress party.

So yes, I was totally that guy at a non-fancy dress party. In a gas mask.

As I was saying, I had to dispose of the asbestos buried in the back yard. Apparently you’re supposed to keep the stuff wet to prevent it from getting powdery. So I got out the hose and sprinkled the area with water. However, I was still ultra-paranoid — asbestos can do nasty things to your skin — so for added protection I put on this immensely thick pair of industrial-style gloves. Then I carefully shovelled the stuff (I reckon there was less than half a kilo) into a rubbish bag and tied it securely.

But, I thought, somewhat irrationally… what if I’d still inadvertently inhaled some fibres?

That’s when I had an equally irrational thought. Welsh men’s choirs are renowned for their energy and power (this will make sense in a moment) and, while I have no idea if the following is true, I was once told that the tradition began amongst miners who would intentionally sing their hearts out on their way home from a shift in an effort to expel coal dust from their lungs. Go figure…

So I thought, “I know!” I’ll go for a run and that’ll have the same effect. Even better, given how unfit I am there would be no shortage of heaving, spluttering, huffing and puffing.

So that explains what's going on in this photo
That, and the only true way to do your gardening is in your Iron Maiden shirt.

Who buys vinyl records these days anyway?

The same people who think playing vinyl is like flyfishing. Here's why...  

I’ve probably mentioned one too many times what a hapless record store junkie I am and how my fixation with music once got to the point where it was all about the buzz of shopping — retail therapy — and acquiring CDs and records when perhaps it should have been about experiencing it.

I’m better now thankfully. It’s been years since I’ve purchased music by the kilo and what was once an incessant preoccupation now resembles nothing more than a serious hobby (I hope). Yet even after that big reality check there’s an aspect to the pursuit of music collecting that never fails to set my heart racing: the thrill of getting my hands on vinyl records.

Whether it’s flicking through a dusty op shop (even if 93 per cent of op shop records consist exclusively of Kamahl, Gilbert & Sullivan and Scottish bagpipe waltzes), gazing longingly at the rock and metal picture discs at my favourite record store, or expectantly unpacking a pizza box-sized package in the mail, there’s something about these thin pieces of round plastic that just keeps me coming back for more.

I want all of them! Except maybe the new Morbid Angel at the front left.

And yet, vinyl records must surely be an anachronism in this day and age.

The photo below was taken after I spent money on three records (this one, this one and this one, all from noise-x-change). Yet I could have so easily downloaded or purchased the same tracks for considerably less. I got a grand total of eight tracks for my money yet I’m limited to a large and bulky setup that involves a turntable, speakers, an amp, and of course somewhere to store the damn things. With a download (legitimate or otherwise) I could have enjoyed this music far more often, in the order I choose, on my portable media player.

Why indeed?

I’ll preface this by saying that once upon a time I fantasised about DJing hard-hitting, balls in your face electronic music in clubs and suspicious abandoned buildings. I bought dozens of records but the closest I got was my bedroom with me as the crowd (although I did once manage to play track B1 on this Nasenbluten album to a bunch of goths). Yeah, I had some semi-serious aspirations — for one thing it looked like sooo much fun. And while that dream has long since faded, it didn’t stop me from attempting to practice my DJ skills (or total lack thereof) on the two turntables I acquired.

Anyway. Having said that, I have a theory about why I believe people still think vinyl records are wonderful — and it has nothing to do with what the posers claim is the superiority of analogue sound. Yes, if you have a perfectly balanced stereo that’s connected to an equally refined stylus that happens to be playing in a room with excellent acoustics then chances are you probably can pick a mild, ‘warmer’ difference to the sound.

On the other hand, if you’re like pretty much everyone else then all those years of gigs and clubbing have almost certainly caused irreparable damage to your hearing and you probably can’t hear the difference anyway.

So no, I don’t believe much in the mystical ‘warmer’ superior sound of vinyl. And making vinyl records even more of a pain in the arse is the fact that they require maintenance — and my two cats never cease to indirectly remind me of this fact. Hell, they cause the maintenance.

One’s a fluffy ginger long-hair and I am forever removing statically accumulated orange fur from records. Then, recently, I found the other one (at seven kilos he’s something of a fatso) actually sprawled out on the platter! I’m certain it’s not the first time he’s done it and I suspect he has something to do with the two or three hundred dollars I had to spend on repairing suspicious damage to the tonearm on my turntable. That, and he somehow managed to switch the damn thing on (I can just see the pro-digital brigade here, waggling their fingers as they dish out patronising reminders about how your cat would never log into iTunes and mess up your settings).

Yeah, he might look cute now, but when nobody’s looking he spreads his FUR everywhere.

Worse still, there’s the eternal risk of permanent scratch damage to the not-so microscopic grooves or even the risk of record breakage. And then there’s the problem with storage. A modest collection can take up a disproportionately large amount of a good bookshelf.

Indeed, who in their right mind would accumulate these things?

You might also ask why there are certain people who actively collect valve radios, hand-powered model aircraft, old woodworking tools and wooden boats, when in each instance a far more advanced alternative is readily available.

The people who love crappy-sounding valve radios and wooden boats that take months of painstaking labour to restore (I’ve heard of wooden racing skiff hulls that have as much 80 per cent of their timber removed during the 'restoration') do it for some weird nostalgic reason that inexplicably give them hours of enjoyment and satisfaction.

It’s fun.

And for that very same reason I love playing with vinyl records and fantasising I'm DJing somewhere else, nowhere near the masses of cat fur and expensive repairs and rapidly diminishing storage space.

The best analogy I can come up with is a comparison to the sport of flyfishing, a specialised and gentlemanly pursuit that takes years to perfect.

Yet behind the mysticism and cult following lies the fact that it’s really nothing more than a specific means of delivering an artificial lure to a fish — one which just happens to be far more challenging than other methods, according to fishing celebrity Steve Starling. There are many far more effective means of catching those fish but the flyfisher chooses the fly rod. It’s a self-imposed limitation that’s highly challenging. But its practitioners reckon it’s the most fun there is.

So too is it with vinyl records.

They’re light years behind current technology. They’re a costly pursuit. They take up space. And a proper DJ setup can be a raging pain in the arse to maintain. 

But it'smuch more fun to do it that way.

Which really, if it’s anything but that, isn’t worth doing.

Plus, mechanical devices with moving parts are kinda coo. Except maybe valve radios.