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Hosted by Patricia Petit Liang

Stories by Jeremiah Ho, Michael Foldvari & Patricia Petit Liang

Produced by Patricia Petit Liang

So you might be wondering why I’m participating in this year’s Metal March, even if I’m not listed under CJLO’s metal shows. Isn’t Sewer Spewer primarily a punk show? (Follow-up question: what the hell is a Sewer Spewer?) Well, if you ever bothered to listen to my radio show, you would realize that the lines between the punk and metal tunes I play on the air are quite blurred.

Is Nails hardcore punk? Or is it death metal? Who cares! Metal borrowed from punk and punk borrowed from metal to the point where the differences are very subtle (and I’m talking about true punk and metal, none of that poppy crap). It’s all thanks to the efforts of some brave musicians who broke down musical barriers, more than 30 years ago.

Now, before I launch into the history of how punk and metal became one, I need to tell you that I’m not an absolute authority on this subject. I wasn’t even born in the golden era of punk and metal. All I know comes from what I’ve read from Wikipedia pages and rockstar memoirs. You shouldn’t quote me on anything I say.

The only evidence I have of punk and metal being separate entities is on a VHS tape I somehow acquired at a record swap. On this tape, the first part is footage from a Dead Kennedys concert from 1984. The other half is a taping of MuchMusic Pepsi Power Hour from the same era, when glam metal was at the top of the charts (heavy metal’s cringiest period, in my opinion). The segment also included videos from Sammy Hagar’s and Ozzy Osbourne’s solo projects (though Ozzy looked like he had no idea what he was doing). If you compared the look of the members of Dead Kennedys to the members of Poison, you would agree that punk and metal could not be more different. Punks were shaving their heads and rocking ripped jeans, while metalheads were keeping their wavy locks and squeezing into tight spandex pants. Heavy metal bands kept trying to one-up each other in their guitar solos, whereas punks were satisfied with same four-chord structure. Metal bands were singing about cocaine and strippers, with the occasional reference to Satan. Punks were yelling about cops busting them for skateboarding.

But around the same time, bands started looking into each other’s camps and started stealing each other’s ideas. The granddaddies of thrash metal known as Metallica, Slayer and Anthrax were ditching the melodic vocals of heavy metal in favour of the aggressive bark of punk vocals. On the other side, bands like Corrosion of Conformity, Dirty Rotten Imbeciles and Suicidal Tendencies started off punk, but got tired of its simplicity and then mastered the art of shredding solos, thus creating crossover thrash. Very soon, these bands went from playing basement shows to sharing the stage with the thrash metal titans. Later on in the 90’s, Corrosion of Conformity’s Pepper Keenan went down south to become part of the sludge metal family, a swampy blend of Rollins-era Black Flag, grunge fuzz and heavy blues inspired by Black Sabbath.

While this was all happening in the States, across the pond in the UK, a new hybrid was taking form: crust punk. It mixed the anarchistic politics of Crass and Discharge with the bleakness of black metal. Amebix in particular used the war imagery commonly found in black metal. The frontman Rob Miller is now a full-time swordsmith, which Is probably the most metal job anyone can have. Then there was Napalm Death, challenging the concepts of time structure with two-second masterpieces. Extreme Noise Terror were just a bunch of punks who wanted to yell as loud as humanly possible. Their guttural bellows inadvertently gave birth to the grindcore movement. To this day, they deny the accusations of being anything but punk.

If you’ve ever watched Heavy Metal Parking Lot, you might remember that Judas fan wearing zebra print from head to toe, yammering on about how “all that punk shit sucks, it belongs on fucking Mars, man!” I wonder if he’d be at all horrified by the way things turned out (unlikely though, since he probably lives in a safe bubble where he jerks off to the same Iron Maiden record every night). But to those of us actually paying attention, punk and metal eventually crossing over was inevitable, because of the common desire to become faster, louder and harder. Only by dropping the petty squabble between punks and metalheads can we truly achieve what really matters: rocking hard.

“F*** the Real McKenzies!”

Not many groups can simultaneously be as kickass and self-deprecating—all while maintaining such a sense of humour that feels lacking in today’s age of far-too-serious punk—as the Real McKenzies.

One of Canada’s most iconic punk bands returns with their next offering to their already impressive catalog. The Real McKenzies kicked off 2017 with the release of Two Devils Will Talk, an album that continues their trend of Atlantic-infused Celtic punk. From the moment the bagpipes start playing, Two Devils works to reaffirms the ongoing legend status of the group.

The record kicks off with a fast-paced vocal chorus from “Due West,” reassuring listeners that they’ll “never die.” The declaration sets the tone for the rest of the album; the McKenzies should not be underestimated. There’s just something about the way that it’s expertly layered on top of hard hitting guitar riffs and unrelenting drums lines, as well as lead singer Paul McKenzie’s Scottish accent, that gives the McKenzies an edge.

The trademark Celtic twinge to their music has always been the magnet that attracted fans. Most of the 14 tracks of the album do feature that sound; but save for a few songs, they do not possess the same heart that appeared on previous records. It might be a departure from their previous winning formula, but you have to acknowledge the courage of the group to change up their sound.

Immaculate storytelling is the one of the many driving forces behind the record, as it has been for the group since their debut in 1995. While “Due West” reassures audiences that they will never die, “Sail Again” offers a little bleaker outlook, declaring “I’ll never sail again” and “Madness fills my head.”

“And as he reached, for his whiskey / Unaware it was his last / His head shook / from a faded hourglass.” “The Town” is one of the album's best songs—not only because of the lyrics, from the poet that is Mr. McKenzie, but because of its implications for the group. Few groups manage to plant themselves so firmly into Canadian lore and culture. After 25 years, the McKenzies continue to be one of the most active live bands in the country, with their passion seemingly unfazed by the grind of travel. This feat of consistency is made more impressive when you learn that Paul McKenzie is the only original member of the group still touring.

While this album doesn’t dig any deeper into the sub-genre of Celtic punk—a sub-genre that they did not invent, but one that they have helped grow and popularize—it displays the versatility and talent of the Real McKenzies. Each track radiates an infectious energy; an energy that makes one begin to frantically tap his foot in order to keep up. The album is never boring, but never truly ascends into the same ranks of other McKenzies records. That doesn’t mean that it’s completely devoid of great punk moments though. The two strongest songs, “Due West” and “Sail Again,” can rank among some of the group’s best. It’s impossible to wonder if this album is a sending-off, or simply the springboard to bigger and better things for the next quarter century.

Album: Mississippi Fred McDowell Vol. 2

Artist: Fred McDowell

Year: 1966 (2016 re-issue)

Label: Arhoolie

Tested On: Grado Black – Realistic LAB 400 – Luxman R-1050 – Dynaco A-25

In the late 1950’s and 1960’s came a renewal of interest in American roots music, and in particular, the blues. Philanthropic folklorists like Alan Lomax made their way around the country diligently locating and recording obscure talent for posterity, and it is not surprising that they managed to discover some really special musicians along the way.

One of them is Mississippi Fred McDowell. McDowell first recorded his singular Mississippi blues with Alan Lomax, and the records that emerged from this encounter scored a lot of notoriety for the artist, who was previously known only to neighbours and friends. Arhoolie Records’ Fred McDowell Vol. 2 offers an intriguing cross-section of McDowell’s work, but is not without its superfluities.

To be sure, this album is mostly great material. The guitar is propulsive, punctual, and unrelenting as a machine. McDowell’s open tuned slide technique is truly exceptional and would risk outshining his drama and wit if these too weren’t so well-honed on the record: the layering of lyrical subtext in “Frisco Line” runs deep, and I get the shakes just thinking about “Red Cross Store Blues.”

Where Arhoolie errs in this project is in their inclusion of the Eli Greene numbers, which feel rather out of place. While most songs are the fruit of one excellent session at Berkeley, the Eli Greene tracks come from another session in Como, Mississippi, and this inconsistency is evident and irksome. These tunes just don’t sparkle and boogie the way McDowell’s solo works do, and the record could have done well without them. Without a doubt, these are worthwhile songs, but had they been omitted in the interest of releasing a more cohesive album, I would not have been disappointed to have lost them.

The recording quality is also subpar on these numbers, which compounds their failure to integrate into an otherwise errorless record. Where the guitar on songs such as “I Walked All the Way from East St. Louis” comes through sleek and shiny, the Green numbers seem to have been tampered with to eliminate the high noise floor of the source cut.

In short, this is a record of truly successful takes bookended by others that pale in comparison, and this creates a tension that I’m not wild about. It is perhaps due only to the lacerating precision of technique and uncanny economy of expression found in McDowell’s solo tracks that the Eli Green recordings seem to sound so lifeless. That the distinction between the good recordings and the poor recordings is so marked, though, shows the high quality of Arhoolie’s vinyl pressing, which really is beyond reproach. This disc throws a revealing and spacious image of McDowell’s electric, driving performances, and for this reason alone is worth owning.