THE HARD STUFF the Ultimate ROCK REVIEWS section
Classic Rock Ratings
Judy Dyble
Weavings Of A Silver Magic CROMERZONE
Live tracks from an overlooked mesmerising British vocalist.
Fairport Convention’s first singer, Judy Dyble also sang with an early version of Giles, Giles and Fripp, and then disappeared off the radar for many years, only re-emerging fully in the 21st century with a series of mesmerising, jaunty and slightly cheeky-sounding albums that placed her extraordinary voice – like singing porcelain – in a more modern context.
This live set from 2016, in which Dyble (it rhymes with ‘bible’) performs with band and orchestra, captures perfectly the charm and scope of her work, with reinterpretations of solo material like the melancholy optimism of Faded Elvis (from her excellent album Earth Is Sleeping) and the epic The Sisterhood Of Ruralists.
Never one to even look at her laurels, let alone rest on them, Judy Dyble is not so much a national treasure as an intergalactic resource, and this album is a great representation of a brilliant artist at work.
David Quantick
The Strokes
The New Abnormal CULT/RCA
Synthpop sixth finds NYC indie innovators out to prove that wasn’t it.
It’s only natural for legendary acts to want lightning to strike twice. Ever since 2006’s First Impressions Of Earth, The Strokes’ sporadic releases have been sheering off from the suave Bowery brilliance of 2001’s Is This It? – year zero for millennial guitar music – to embrace power rock, electronica, Gallic pop and synth-metal to avoiding becoming NYC’s second Ramones, originators in a rut.
After a seven-year break, The New Abnormal is their most adventurous record yet, with producer Rick Rubin fostering the band’s synth-pop leanings and singer Julian Casablancas’s inner Prince. It hits far more than it misses – synthetic wafts like Selfless, At The Door and Ode To The Mets benefit from the sci-fi airiness of recent Flaming Lips, and Brooklyn Bridge To Chorus is effervescent Modern Age electro-pop.
But the consistently strong tunes sometimes battle a superficial futurism. Eternal Summer is an off-kilter mutant – psychedelic Scissor Sisters choruses, gruff Floyd verses, knackered inner-tube solos – while minimalist industrial funk track The Adults Are Talking, artificially restrained for the sake of modernity, would’ve made a fantastic Strokes song. Meaty prom rocker Bad Decisions best honours, and updates, their roots. Otherwise, The New Abnormal is less new big bang, more engrossing sizzle.
Mark Beaumont
Gorilla
Rock Our Souls GO DOWN
South coast stoner gem gets a second crack of the whip.
Surfing in on a thick wave of beer fumes, Gorilla were one of the most believable bands to emerge from the stoner rock explosion of the mid-90s. This, their second album, is long-overdue some dewy-eyed reassessment because it hits the Sabbathian nail much harder than most, while always sounding like the work of sweaty English people tethered to a fucked up Transit.
Vulture Tree and Preying Menace, deliciously slack-jawed slabs of proto-doom, showcase the best of the trio’s enormous riffs, while Come On Now and (sort of) title track Rock R Souls take a turbo-charged pub rock approach; the latter sounds, in the best possible way, like an end-of-the-pier Rose Tattoo. Blud Sucka is an unapologetic salute to early-doors Motörhead, albeit even more grubby and chaotic than the real thing, while Hot Cars is a woozy rush of Entwistling bass lines and priapic blues-rock swagger.
Dom Lawson
Broken Witt Rebels
OK Hotel SPINEFARM
Brum rockers shed skins.
“We didn’t want to make the first album again,” says Broken Witt Rebels frontman Danny Core. And he ain’t kidding. The Birmingham four-piece tracked OK Hotel in Austin, Texas, but aside from Core’s wounded twang – which still evokes Kings Of Leon’s Followill brothers – the southern rock flavours of their debut are almost entirely gone.
Rather than a Mississippi sundown, songs like Take You Home, Save My Life and Rich Get Richer evoke a night drive through a neon-lit Far Eastern city – all echo-clad guitars, electronic swooshes, sampled hand claps. It’s generally chillier, lonelier and less organic than early favourites like Shake Me Down, but there are undoubtedly some brilliant songs here. The anthemic Running With The Wolves has an undeniable momentum, Money grinds on a seedy synth riff, while the title track manages to feel both robotic and utterly human. They sound like a different band – but another damn good one.
Henry Yates
Delain
Apocalypse & Chill NAPALM
Dutch symphonic rockers’ sixth album.
Evanescence’s breakthrough in 2003 paved the way for a succession of groups for whom nothing was taboo: massive, hook-laden songs; giant riffs; symphonic synthesisers; heroic vocals; and the sense that the end of the world was nigh.
Nobody has pursued the path with more vigour than Delain, and sixth time round they still sound as if they’re camping inside the most exhilarating of wind tunnels. Even before the three orchestral bonus tracks, they’ve never sounded bigger, from Chemical Redemption with its Omen-esque choral vocals, to the drum-propelled Burning Bridges, via To Live Is To Die, which is how a classically infatuated Ministry might sound.
Bringing cohesion to the glorious swirl around her, vocalist Charlotte Wessels veers from glass-shattering on Creatures to bereft on the relatively restrained Ghost House Heart, and when the drama really kicks in on Legions Of The Lost she wrestles with a Latin choir and just about wins.
John Aizlewood
Candlemass
The Pendulum NAPALM
Doom denizens snatch riffs from the jaws of defeat.
For fans of your actual heavy metal, 2020’s cultural high point so far was the sight of Candlemass having a lovely time at the Grammys. The Swedes were nominated for Astorolus – The Great Octopus, a monstrous slab of epic doom featuring a guitar solo from Tony Iommi. They were robbed, of course, by a lengthy, Tony-free Tool song that literally nobody can whistle in the shower. It’s a funny old game.
Fortunately, disgruntled acolytes have to cheer them up: five and the title track are among Candlemass’s finest.
