Detroit punks hone their ample strengths on a third album that's pure rock 'n' roll
System Of A Down : Birmingham Academy
Disorder, disorder, disorder: it’s a song of the times, a sign of the times, the only slogan you need...
There is, of course, one exception. On the morning of September 11th 2001, System Of A Down
’s second album, ‘Toxicity’, hit Number One on the Billboard Chart. The work of four fearlessly mental LA-based Armenian-American dissidents with a soft spot for the back-to-nature environmental theories of American bogeyman Charles Manson and a healthy contempt for authority, it peeled back the glitzy gloss of Sunset Strip to reveal a blackened vein running all the way back to America’s diseased core. System Of A Down
rescheduled their European tour in the wake of September 11th, citing ‘political unrest’ (at the time, they firmly believed they were being investigated by the CIA). Tonight, over seven months on from its release, they bring ‘Toxicity’ to British shores for the first time. And it starts like this.
CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH! A rhythmic burst of death-metal chug that tumbles off the walls like breaking tsunami waves. CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH! System Of A Down
frontman Serj Tankian - wild-eyed and devilishly-bearded, looking like a demented Cossack mystic - marches to the front of the stage, lifts a microphone to his lips, and hisses "They’re try’na build a prison!" And then the dense slaughterhouse thrash of ‘Prison Song’ grinds into life.
"All research and successful drug policy show that that treatment should be increased!" shrieks Tankian, bounding around the stage like he’s dancing on hot coals, "And law enforcement should be decreased, while abolishing mandatory minimum sentences!" It’s a song about the US government’s draconian zero-tolerance narcotics policy. Yeah, one of those. And it’d be unbearably pretentious, if it didn’t sound so fucking incredible.
But that’s System Of A Down all over. Their songs are terrifying visions of sky-rending apocalyptica - grinning kamikaze pilots with horse’s heads (‘Jet Pilot’), roaming militas of gun-toting child soldiers (‘Deer Dance’), coke-ravaged Los Angeles starfuckers (‘Psycho’), and fungus people that suck out your brains (‘Sugar’). But even though they press-gang everything from fiddle-de-dee Armenian folk to skull-crushing Slayer
-style psychometal to tempo-skipping wonder-prog into their mutating, malleable design, luckily, you only remember the fantastic moments.
Like a building-levelling ‘Suite-Pee’, which unexpectedly segues in and out of a totally serious, and impassioned chorus ofJohn Lennon’s ‘Give Peace A Chance’. A pious take on their airtime-hogging ‘Chop Suey’, where Tankian turns his eyes to heaven and plays out his crucified Messianic fantasies, part theatrical pantomime posturing, part Christian-baiting blasphemy. Or that adrenaline-filled moment in ‘Toxicity’, where the roar of bassist Shavo Odadjian and guitarist Daron Malakian’s instruments fall away, drummer John Dolmayan rings out a tense military crack on his snare drum, and Tankian bellows "Disorder! Disorder! Disorder!" like the sky is falling in, and devils are dancing around his shoes.
Oh, it’s a faith thing, that’s for sure. It has to be. Because there is no real logic to the System Of A Down design – but there is also no faux-meaningful stage banter, and no state-the-fucking-obvious political spoon-feeding, no cloying feel-my-pain bullshit and no simpering pussy-punk fashioneering. Nothing, in fact, but a simple, visceral screech of affirmation. And isn’t that exactly what you want? A band that promise nothing, yet somehow, deliver everything?
Right now, System Of A Down are the most significant metal act since Slipknot. In time, they may become the most significant metal act sinceMetallica. Disorder, disorder, disorder: it’s a song of the times, a sign of the times, the only slogan you need.
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