Sometimes, music is like one of those parties that you see in teen movies. Some poor schlub invites a few friends over to listen to some music and have a few illicit beers. Then word gets out, and before you know it, there are about 500 people, laying waste to the domicile. Well, imagine these bands as those guests, and the unfortunate house is your speakers or headphones. Because this is all about the heaviness. Riffs measured by the ton, kick drums, smoke, mirrors and almost certainly … fire. First, a stray spark from an overdriven tube amplifier ignites that pile of dropped notes that are the detritus of a band’s naked ambition, and before you know it, a conflagration has broken out.
Mono, “You Are There,” (Human Highway)
Were Mono a weather forecast, the prognosis would be partly sunny, with thunderstorms guaranteed. When this band first played Chicago, its last song began delicately, before ending in a hyperamplified sonic battering that led the Abbey Pub’s owner to say, “People like this stuff?” Few bands have as vivid a contrast between moods — from gentility to fuzzed-out excess. These instrumentals require patience and reward the listener with an almost out-of-body experience.
The Coma Recovery, “Drown That Holy End in Wine,” (Failed Experiment)
This is why you listen to everything that comes over the transom. Because, yes, many bands are peopled by young men screaming at you, backed by your basic rock band. It’s called punk. But the Coma Recovery has tentacles in a sonic world with roots in punk, indie, metal and space music. There are delicate atmospherics, a king hell monster of a drummer named Sam Owen, and a delightful, edgy sort of dissonance that captivates. Frontman Daniel Brigman howls at you with that anguished, emo moodiness and not since Pinebender has a band reveled in guitar sound with such unfettered joy.
Acid Mothers Temple, “Just Another Band From the Cosmic Inferno,” (Important)
It’s so great that this aural tsunami comes from a label named Important. Because this disc isn’t just important for fans of the Heaviness. It’s critical. The Temple is reinventing itself, from the trippy, sometimes hard-rocking collective to a harder core, whetted on the fire of heavy rock. As always, at the center is shaggy shaman Kawabata Makoto. If you’ve heard a Jimi Hendrix freakout, or classic heavy psychedelia, none of what the Temple does will be a surprise.
Pearls & Brass, “The Indian Tower,” (Drag City)
Look. On the back of this disc. Three men and a bonfire in the woods. What’s burning? The ambition of imitators? The egos of lesser bands? The ignorant would dismiss this music as metal. But in this age of a segmented genre, this is heavy rock, Southern flavored with a strong emphasis on harmony — as in voice dovetailing neatly with guitar notes. “Black Rock Man” might be the purest distillation of what Pearls & Brass do, which is to strip rock’s vicious, gnarly essence to something that pays unvarnished homage to the blues.
The Sword, s/t, (Kemado)
Hello, Binky. Welcome to Armageddon, a land steeped in non-time where riffs go on forever, because nothing is coming along to push them out of the way. Fans of “Jerusalem,” by Sleep, one of the greatest heavy rock recordings ever created, should rush right out for The Sword’s self-titled disc. It mixes metal, doom and elements of prog rock, along with that Southern rock seasoning that is all the rage right now. Tempos are midrange, because that’s where big, fat music such as this lives.
Yakuza, “Samsara,” (Prosthetic)
Everything is there, here, from the mysterious tones that wend their way through the Middle Eastern tonalities and rhythms of “Cancer of Industry,” to the gradual, increasingly aggressive build of the song. Even the millisecond’s pause between intro and the rapid-fire, unrelenting pace of the body of the song is perfect. Two vocalists, one operatic and keening, the classic metal screamer, the other the guttural, classic Cookie Monster howler. This is the new sound of heavy rock, a blend of a number of disparate influences, but at its core it mixes metal and hardcore.
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kmwilliams@tribune.com
