Pity poor heavy metal.
Pity poor heavy metal. Its tragic tale may have been played out in the most ludicrously theatrical of traditions but even miserable toga-tugger Sophocles could not have contrived an ending as cruelly inglorious as this. Today, metal is as marketable a commodity as tinned ham, and as much a part of the Identikit anti-establishment uniform as big shorts and a ‘difficult’ childhood. Worse still, the genre’s current, crushing need to disassociate itself from its roots and flaunt its cool, canny grasp of the new (you know – technology and, like, ‘issues’) is, like an old man in combat trousers, not only embarrassing but completely self-defeating.
), their no-frills rage rings truer than ever.
But, really, when the best track on an album of alledgedly zeitgeist-wrestling mini-apocalypses is a cover of Pink Floyd‘s ‘Have A Cigar’ by Foo Fighters and Brian May (that’s [I]Brian May[/I]), it’s time for all involved to ask themselves some serious questions.
Rock is dead, they say. Sadly ‘they’, on this evidence, may well have a point.