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Review by Krablingy
Eighties metal will always carry the distinction of being
abnormally loud. At a time when the likes of Spinal Tap were just beginning
their experimentation with the number eleven, the flipside of the coin was
emblazoned with the desert swirl of shit and gasoline. There were the glams
and there were the shams.
A decade and a half after the pinnacle of artistic integrity
associated with any element - metal or non-metal - it appears that a hoax
has been perpetrated by the producers of both the sedimentary and igneous
varieties of rock. Where the aim was once to astound with its solid
foundation of key musical aestheticism, the point was now to take control of
the senses altogether, to incapacitate.
To control is to dominate the senses to the very limit of
physical reaches, and Queens of the Stone Age has proven a worthy challenger
in the war on the auditory. Like a cancer trying to engulf a slightly
smaller and less evolved cancer, sonic waves swallow the sense as guitars
and drums strike away with electronic proficiency.
To the untrained mind and the unprepared ear, nothing is happening. No
meaning of any importance is to be derived from this series of noises; No
idea to be taken away from the amplified chanting larynx.
Welcome to the Sublimerica Center, home of the thought-free. Population:
three-fifths of nineteen-thousand Red Hot Chili Pepper fans, and a dozen or
so heavy duty heads.
Jammin' and slammin' and swearin' and tearin' into your heads, God is here,
and a bunch of suburban smart asses just sold you a soup for your
birthrights. Jesus certainly was the biggest superstar of them all, and Josh
Homme and Nik Oliveri are coming to a town near you to turn the water in
your ears into mushy brain nutrients. They're taking over your mind, and for
once, somebody ought to let them.
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