Peace Sells is the mark of a true genre-bending record since, like all watershed musical moments, it both creates the pattern others would follow, and, at the same time, continuously subverts its own ethos.
While Slayer and Metallica were busy thinking how intricate and/or scary they could be, reaching truly amazing heights of both self-importance and spookiness (you could just hear the recording studio banter that was going on during the recording of other of the era's great albums: "Wow, dude! An Auschwitz song. Awesome!" or "Wow, little man! That song is 10 minutes long, Great"), Megadeth, at least in Peace Sells, were able to not only be the most intricate and most scary, but, most importantly, stay pissed.
The punk ethos is really what separated much of the thrash bands that began sprouting in the early1980s from the hair-metal bands of their day. They hated stuff, they were angry, and, in most cases, could play better than their other angry friends, which, when you think of it, were stuck with not getting laid and still being angry.
That didn't mean that thrash bands were hardcore/punk bands only heavier, but just that a lot
of the aesthetical elements of punk, along with some of its arrogance and political stance, got mixed into the melting pot that became thrash, along with a good measure of NWOBHM.
At least that's how I saw it. Earphones on, door closed, it made you feel a kind of togetherness
for being different, and it made you feel powerful because that's what really really (really) loud guitars do. Damn straight.
But unlike a lot of the other great stuff that was coming out as thrash gearing to take over the world (at least, the radio-friendly version was), Peace Sells, didn't and doesn't sound like their showing off. They sound pissed while showing off, along with being a little cheesy, which is really the best definition of truly great thrash metal.
The title track is probably the best example of being pissed while showing off, and remains, to
this day, one of the best lyrical assaults on a society distrustful of long-haired freaks to date, complete with Dave Mustaine's trademark awkward punning ("What do you mean I ain't kind? Just not your kind").
It's pounding bass line, the Mustaine's screeching guitar leads, and the "fuck-you-I'm-just-as-good-as-you" attitude, still work 24 years after that song was unleashed unto the air.
But wait, that political righteousness comes after a song about creeping inside your house after cheating on your girlfriend (including one of the best riffs ever to be carved out of a guitar, and which was reused in Metallica's "Right the Lightning") and a song about summoning the devil. So what gives!?
That's because Peace Sells, while punky and straightforward, is also cheesy, just like metal really is. Not, of course, in that Manowar kind of over the top cheese-fest, but cheesy enough to not feel too cumbersome, too serious. I'm sure Mustaine was awfully serious when he wrote songs like "The Conjuring" and "Devil's Island," but that's just because he's crazy. For normal people, even at 16, it's cheesy.
But that cheese is also accompanied by simply mind-boggling music making. Not just shredding, or banging, but honest-to-God (or the devil) song making. Every song makes think you it's going one way, and then take this weird jazzy break or turn, only to become something else completely. And while this is an aspect of Megadeth's music that will get more attention in their Rust in Peace album, it's still in force here, supported by the late and great Gar Samuelson.
And then there's "Good Morning/Black Friday," the song that makes you feel like you're in for a sprawling-"check out my new guitar" type of ego-fest, hinted at by the oh-so-pretentious double title, and which turns out to be a shredding powerhouse of a song about killing people. And while clocking in at 6:41 (it's not only the albums longest tracks but one of Megadeth's longest all-time) it feels as if it powers by in no more than two seconds. Maybe three.
"My Last Words" and "Bad Omen" are great too, but the real deal breaker here is the, frankly, genius, choice of covering Willie Dixon's "I Ain't Superstitious." That cover, and the choice of that cover, really exposes everything that's great about this album: it's playful, it's pissed, it's personal, it shows off that odd jazzy/bluesy overtone, while being as weird, spooky and heavy as anything in the known universe.
And it's that that combination of political irreverence, musical progressiveness, cheesiness, and sheer anger that makes this album not only stand out from the period in which it was made, but remain as vital today as it was then. It was pissed-off, playful and subversive in that punk-ish kind of way, while being totally committed to songcraft, heaviness and all-around skull-bashing fun. Now, excuse me while I go summon the devil.
I went through the obligatory "Ill-listen-to-stuff-my-older-brother-listens-to" when I was about 10 and my brother 15. His weapon of choice, other than the odd Def Leppard cassette (and I thought I was being old-fashioned with cds…), was to a large extent hip hop (then known as "rap"), a habit supported by an American friend of the family's.
This kept my brother in ever-fresh supply of whatever was big in the early nineties, with titles filled with angry/playful men and ominous "Explicit Lyrics" stickers. (It may sound funny today, but those stickers scared the hell out of me. Felt like doing something wrong.)
Groups like 3rd Base, The Pharcyde, Run DMC, NWA, Onyx, Public Enemy (a lot of Public Enemy) and people like Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Ice T, and Guru were on heavy rotation back then. Needless to say, I did not think highly of any white person in those days, and believe me when I say that I'm one of the paler people in existence today.
The method was simple: Every time my brother got sick of one of his mix tapes he'd pass it over to me, and so on. Worked for everyone.
As time went on, and as I morphed into the awkward Alice-in-Chains-t-shirt-wearing, I'm-mad-at-the-world and not-bathing teenager, and parted ways with rap (now already "hip hop"), except from the odd meeting of the two worlds such as "Bring the Noise," Body Count's fine first album, and the very strange realization that that cool song I liked on the new Korn cd I thought was so current was in fact an Ice Cube song ("Wicked") I used to listen to during fourth grade school trips….
Years later I was forced to reevaluate my then non-existent stand as a result of my clash with two very special bands. One was The Roots, through an especially avid Roots man, with the other being Outkast, through the endless airplay Stankonia got at the time. Yes, I am sorry Ms. Jackson.
While it was Stankonia which got my attention at first, I found myself much more drawn to Outkast's back catalogue, which made me remember, in way, what it was I liked about rap/hip hop in the first place. They were raw, in your face and as explicit you would find outside a nudie bar (to quote the great Al Bundy) and as smart, brilliantly put together, self-referential, and accessible as any music I have ever heard.
While I never really hung around hip hop circles, I have a sneaky feeling that the "keepin' real" crowd would gravitate toward Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik and ATLiens, while the more hit-based crowd would prefer the safer albums that follow.
Obviously, there is no right answer. Both Southernplaya - listicadillacmuzik and ATLiens are fine albums, especially the latter, and are probably the best of the best when it comes to mid 90s hip hop and definitely the best in the so-called "dirty south" category, one which – the category, not the music – I always detested.
Stankonia? Stankonia was brilliant, with many authentic and beautiful moments (B.O.B. has one of the most crazed I-want-to-punch-your-mom-while-dancing beats ever heard, and ever to be heard). But - and this is a big one - it lacks the real force, call it desperation, truth, sentiment, rage that should always balance out the smarty-pants side of things. In other words, Andre was killing Big Boi.
But Aquemini is the point where the ying and yang meld in a varied and wonderful way, where opposites actually work off of each other, instead of splitting into separate and mutually exclusive entities (i.e. Speakerboxxx/The Love Below).
Everyone has something to choose from, with most finding everything they'll ever need in every single song. The old school crowd have their fill with songs like "Return of the 'G'," "West Savannah," "Y'all Scared," and more, while others can enjoy the bounce of "Rosa Parks," "Skew it on the Bar-B," and Synthesizer."
The albums is packed with amazing songs, which not only bounce and hop, but also provide a glimpse of Atlanta life, with amazing storytelling and poignant moments.
But the tracks in which Outkast really shines here are the kind of songs which you could only find on Aquemini, the kind of tracks that don't only make you dance or think, but blow you away, or let you into the Andre and Big Boi's darkest most vulnerable places.
Aquemini's tail-end alone (from "Da Art of Storytellin Part 1" onwards, featuring the insatiable Slick Rick) would make an amazing album. The storytelling and sheer magnetic Ska-like/slow-jam groove of the never-ending, spellbinding "Spottieottiedopaliscious," or the heart breaking tenderness of "Liberation," which features Cee-lo Green at his emotional greatest, not only give out a feeling of mid-90s Atlanta, but a rare and beautiful view into the soul of these two great artists.
Slap those tracks together with the ton-of-bricks full force and passion of "Chonkyfire," sex appeal of "Mamacita" and the eerie break of "Nathaniel," and you have a bona fide masterpiece.
It is, however, equally clear that "Liberation" would never work as well as it does if it wasn't preceded by the grit of "Return of the 'G'" or followed by "Chonkyfire." Outkast isn't just sensitive, or revealing, just like it isn’t just balls-out partying or fried southern beats.
It's their uncanny ability to blend the two into one oscillating and scintillating whole, revealing, hiding, prancing, crying – and everything through their wonderful verbal/poetic acrobatics – which sets them apart as a group, and which makes this album shine as brightly as it does.
Tucked away farther east then even the notorious East Coast, Fugazi wasn't exaclt ythe kind of thing you just bumped against. While several people I knew growing up were into hardcore and punk, bands like Bad Brains, Minor Threat and Black Flag were never very popular. People I knew liked either Sick of it All, Life of Agony or (from the other camp) bands like Toy Dolls, The Exploited and their like.
When I finally stumbled upon Fugazi, it wasn't really a stumbling on, more like an ordering. By mail that is. I ordered Red Medicine basing my decision on my sole belief that the All Music Guide was god (this is about 1996-7) and if they thought this band was worth something, than they must be right.
I don't remember listening to it that much. Just the vague feeling that I liked it, but in a weird "I-don’t feel like listening to it right now sort of way."
Next time I was faced with a Fugazi cd was about 6 years later, when I had decided to unwind a bit (from all of this eastern climate) in the US. I saw The Argument, remembered this vague affection with their older cd and went ahead and bought it. And that was that. I was in.
The most significant fact about Fugazi, of course, whether the band's devoted army of fans likes it or not, was that, at one point, one Ian Thomas Garner MacKaye (a.k.a. harcore demi-god) was the leading man of one Minor Threat, the biggest, baddest, and smartest east-coast hardcore act outside of Bad Brains.
This fact was in fact significant enough for the band to have to suffer through countless punkers screaming MT song titles, or just pound the hell out of any indie kid in sight while they wait for "Cashing In" or, if they were super lucky, "Straight Edge." One of these absurd moments was poignantly caught on tape in the band's great doc "Instrument," in which one such hardcore wannabe gets slammed as a "ice-cream eating motherfucker" by Fugazi's jester/genius Guy Picciotto.
And to be honest, it's not like no-one was waiting for the MT Yang to kick in every time Fugazi went into their instrumental Yings, but somehow along the way, with their unique style and musical genius, Fugazi was able to be good enough and ground-breaking enough that most people, most of the time, didn't really care about their mythical past, which, by the way, is an achievement not many bands can claim.
But, with "The Argument," as the title may suggest, that discussion was not only over, it showed that the band, for once, stopped caring about who knew who back in 1982 (just liked the rhyme…).
Although Fugazi have forged their own path with impressive, almost unheard of, coherence and grit from the very first EP, and despite the fact that, as MacKaye himself stated in an interview I read somewhere, MT were smart enough as it is, with a new millennia behind their backs, Fugazi sounded like they just ejected themselves out of the silly MT debate and into the musical stratosphere.
It's not that sounding like MT, being influenced by MT, of being in MT is a bad thing. Being a part of a band that good, that clever, and of a moment that amazing, can never be bad. But there's something to be said about nuance, and in "The Argument" Fugazi have their MT cake, and leave an oddly and beautifully angry cake completely whole.
You have, of course, the usual combination a steamroller of distortion and pent-up rage (Full Disclosure, Nightshop, Epic Problem) along with quite, almost too quiet for comfort moments (The Kill), and the good ole' Fugazi tendency to just tinker with anything we ever thought a song could sound like while sounding like, well, a song.
But, unlike their other great works, Fugazi sound relaxed. Well, relaxed may be the wrong word. Maybe tense, in an "I-don't-care-if-you're-picking-up-on-the-tension" kind of way. Just listen to the drums that open the mesmerizing Life and Limb. Is it punk? Is it hardcore? It's Fugazi. And the guitars? Are they punk? They sound as if they could have come off of any of Sonic Youth's later albums, maybe Pavement. Who cares, when the end result makes you want to bash in the wall of a really high-end coffee shop, 5 minutes after you ordered your espresso, and not know why.
The best tracks on this album, a kind of impossibility in a piece that is so well balanced no track can be really pulled out of it without tempering with the whole, are as good as that word gets, and function not only as the best of a truly great band, but like a microcosm of American alt rock in the last 20-30 years.
Life and Limb, the slow-burning Cashout, and the amazing title track, which opens this brick-house of feathers and knives, prove how close Fugazi came to the impossible: hold a dignified, sensitive and complex burial for Minor Threat, while kicking the priest (Rabbi, Imam, Buddhist monk, or whatever) in the face during last rites. Without anyone seeing it.
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