Review: Opeth's 'Sorceress' casts its spell

Soldiering on through their new growl-free era, Opeth have either musicially neutered themselves or continued to push progressive boundaries with quality music, depending on who you ask.

Splitting their fanbase down the middle with 2011’s infamous (but really rather good) Heritage album, guttural growls and heavy riffing went out in the window in favour of a greater emphasis on haunting, autumnal atmospherics and slight noodling, all drenched in 70’s worshipping prog.

This turned away a sizable number in disgust, with the rest (and music publications) praising the resultant music for what it was, rather than what it wasn’t: and crucially, it was really fucking good. 

The same was said of 2014’s Pale Communion, which tumbled deeper down the prog rabbit-hole.

The naysayers can be forgiven, however, for while both Heritage and Pale Communion were excellent slabs of music in themselves, there was certainly something strangely different. 

Where the likes of past albums Blackwater Park, Still Life and Ghost Reveries were genuinely awe-inspiring, almost maddeningly inventive works hitting a high clang on the how-did-you-do-that register, Heritage and onwards are merely really-quite-good in comparison, destined to occupy an interesting spot in Opeth’s gleaming back catalogue but never to knock the twin giants of Ghost Reveries and Blackwater Park off their (deserved) high perches.

With this in mind (and in one’s ears), 2016 brings us the mysterious Sorceress. Boasting a title-track with the first heavy riffing of any kind since 2008’s Watershed, this new gilded release, essentially, continues onward from Pale Communion – as it should.

A straightforward return to death-metal stylings would carry a 99% chance of being an obvious rehash and lazy genre-milking, so hats must come off to Mikael Akerfeldt and co. for having the confidence to writing from the heart with more deliciously classy prog-rock.

So to an extent, the listener knows what to expect – piano, acoustic guitar, tasteful flute, looming keyboards, etc – and is rewarded in kind with more achingly beautiful instrumentation, inspired passages, haunting melodies and Akerfeldt continuing to be one of rock and metal’s most favoured sons.

Simply put, the quality bar is still endearingly high and Opeth have reliably rewarded those deciding to stick with them in a brave new musical world. Their classic past albums will always exist for those who prefer them, and the band have long since earned the right to do whatever they damn well please, and the results are fantastic.

Review: Muse - 'Drones'

The world continues to resemble an appallingly-written sci-fi movie by every passing day, so it feels especially righteous to have a fresh slab of music from popular rock's most endearing riff-wielding commentators, Muse. 

Album number seven, with the band noting a marked return to the primal guitar-bass-drums setup of their earlier works, comes with its own narrative: indeed, Matt, Dom and Chris have even expressed enthusiasm for Drones to be adapted into some form of musical.

Possibly to nix the allure of potential album leaks, Muse have pre-empted the release of Drones with not just the expected slew of singles, but approximately half the album. Psycho was the first out the gate, providing a musical home for a guitar riff that Bellamy has been throwing around for almost all of the band's history. 

The Drill Sergeant barking that precedes it is one of two interludes on the album, recalling Tool's fondness for such between-song pieces that allow the listener to breath and take a detour through disembodied planes before stumbling directly back into the album's narrative. 

Dead Inside followed, despite this Undisclosed Desires-turned-nasty stuttering disco stomper actually opening the album, possibly to allay fears of Bellamy talking a load of bells about the supposed return to Planet Rock. When received by the masses, it prompted confusion - it wasn't pureblood rock, but wasn't meat-and-potatoes either, proving Muse hadn't lost their appetite for exploration.

Next up, in both pre-album releases as well as Drones' actual running order, cometh Mercy and Reapers, which history may pinpoint as the overall album's standout tracks. Mercy proudly shows off its musical lineage, carrying several elements from past songs such as Starlight, Follow Me as well as setlist cornerstone Stockholm Syndrome, juicing the ingredients into a fantastic slice of glittercannon pop-rock.

Reapers takes the madness further with a so-so verse that gives way triumphantly to Rage Against The Machine-turned-glam guitar work, featuring a fabulously jubilant  - and dare I say it, sassy - guitar solo with the greatest chorus of the whole album. A surefire gem.

The Handler sits stubbornly at the album's core, guitar riff reaching out in several directions like a drowsy belligerent octopus. It provides the uneasiest experience amongst the tracklisting, but not without showcasing Muse's songwriting prowess.

The second of the interludes, JFK, features the great man himself blathering before Bellamy and co kick the door down with Defector, (yet) another monstrously rocking track that wields its hammerblow riffs and Queen-esque backing vocals, Matt in a pleasingly defiant mood that contrasts with the negativity preceding it over the course of some of the album's first half. 

After the usual dizzying carousel of thick-stringed riffery, bombast and epic themes, Revolt is a not entirely unpleasant prospect but its city-stomping predecessors leave such a mark that it nearly drops the baton. It may please those who wish for a simpler song, but history may consign it to the dusty corner of unloved filler tracks (see also: Explorers and Guiding Light).

Then again, it may be the intention to wind down the musical intensity as the narrative reaches its conclusion. Aftermath almost recalls the woozy sway of past tracks such as Blackout and the three-part Exogenesis Symphony, but is slightly too watery and ultimately fails to make a meaningful impression.

Ten-minute-monster The Globalist pointedly defies any notion of bringing things to a gentle halt with a heady mix of unadulterated fearlessness, albeit with slightly wobbly execution. Whilst not the greatest thing Muse have ever committed to tape, it inarguably succeeds in marking out Muse as one of the most interesting acts to tap the Top 10 on the shoulder before lending it a copy of 1984. 

Closing this chapter in Muse's history is the album's title track, in which Bellamy clones himself and forces the assembled Matts at Manson-point to all sing at the same time. It's a strange soup of the man exploring the different levels of his still-brilliant voice, but also sounds like several vocal warm-up takes being played at the same time. As album closers go, only time will have the final word on whether it truly works or not.

A cabal of longtime Musers wait, agonised, for Muse to return to the form they built their career and legend on. Drones doesn't completely hark back to those times, because nostalgia is a backwards glance and Muse have never done anything else except march into the future. For that, they cannot be criticised. 

7.5/10

Review: Muse - 'Psycho' (Single)

So. Matt Bellamy warned us (or soothed us) with tales of a stripped-back sound for the new Muse album, now absolutely, totally, properly confirmed as the blunt-sounding Drones. It's interesting to see that even the title retains the same minimalistic feeling as the music is supposed to, and the tracklisting for the impending album is almost entirely made up of equally blunt one-word song titles. So far, more blunt than a James Blunt family gathering.

It's some surprise, then, that new track Psycho is a musical long-awaited home for a guitar riff (known as the '0-3-0-5-0 riff') that Bellamy has been dicking around with for several years, Muse often launching into it by means of an outro to Stockholm Syndrome in concerts. This opens a debate: if the lead single is a queasy mixture of new and old, what can be said for the rest of the album?

Anyway, on to the single itself, which is pleasingly rocking, and feels like a spiritual successor to 2009 single Uprising in its steady fist-pumping pace. A drill sergeant features throughout, yelling at a soldier, while Bellamy yells 'Your ass belongs to me now!', a line which finely treads between being acceptable and just a bit cringeworthy - as is the swearing, which is either Muse flopping their balls on the musical table or trying slightly too hard to be edgy.

It may seem that they cannot win, as some will inevitably find Psycho's meat-and-potatoes approach boring, missing the sonic explorations of previous singles Madness and Follow Me, excellent songs that drew a collective 'Oh' from a large portion of the fanbase.

Here's hoping that Drones will be a blend of Muse's best traits; much-loved past albums such as Absolution and Black Holes & Revelations have successfully blended their ASDA-sized riffs, orchestral backings and sense of adventure immensely, while the subsequent The Resistance and The 2nd Law saw the quality barrier dip slightly. 

Muse have proven themselves as world-beaters several times over - hopefully they'll get right back where they belong, at the top of the pile.

Review: Bumblefoot - Little Brother is Watching

Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal hasn’t had a chance to properly grace us with his brand of methodical musical madness for quite some time. For those who wondered what the feck was up with Guns N’ Roses these days and investigated, you’ll be aware that Thal has spent considerable time lending his  guitar wizardry to them. Now his tenure may have reached a conclusion, and we have Little Brother is Watching, his first full-length since 2008’s Abnormal.

And boy, is it welcome. Brilliantly bright lead guitars permeate Thal’s signature flavours of slightly cartoonish modern pop-rock eccentricities, where a vocal hook takes residence in your brain and forces you to hum it, before he utilises his stunning string-melting shredtastic sorcery and tastefully kicks the door down with a good old guitar solo.

Indeed, one of Thal’s many gifts is to know exactly when to unleash his formidable ability and give a song just the right guitar solo: he also knows when not to, proving equally adept at allowing his axe to sing in its own voice that melodically duets with the music – and with Thal’s own voice, which is impressive in itself.

Abnormal was seen as the ‘evil twin’ to 2005’s bright-eyed Normal, and appeared to take on a punk edge to some of the tracks, with cuts like Piranha proving ferocious. Little Brother is Watching places itself unapologetically in the pop-rock arena, with witty and touching lyricisms duelling with tasty riffs, singalong leads and distinctive vocals that deserve to help establish Ron Thal as a force to be celebrated.

Overall, Little Brother is Watching already has the competition pinned to the wall. If there is a God, it will coax listeners away from mainstream pap and towards a multi-talented, honest and musically fearless individual who has proven himself capable of great things and worthy of your attention.

He’s far more than a Bumblefootnote. 

Incoming: Steven Wilson - 'Hand. Cannot. Erase'

In a journey that began during the touring cycle for 2013’s opus The Raven that Refused to Sing, where the forward-looking Mr. Wilson aired newer music alongside new tracks, we find ourselves facing another release from the messiah figure of prog: Hand. Cannot. Erase.

In contrast to 2014’s Cover Version collection, Wilson has gone for the jugular with a concept album that out-concepts his previous concepts. Where Raven was based on a collection of ghost stories penned by Wilson, his latest offering takes respectful inspiration from the tragic tale of Joyce Vincent, a young woman who had been dead in her London bedsit for two years before anyone found her. 

Despite being a young, attractive woman with enough family and friends, she managed to essentially disappear inside the ocean of the city. Thoroughly affected by this, and a documentary on the subject, Wilson has taken the story as inspiration, concocting something of a musical story with a similar individual as its protagonist.

There’s the concept, but what do we know of the music so far? Kate Bush has been admitted as an influence, and Wilson has cold-watered fears of an overly poppy record by reassuring that Hand. Cannot. Erase. actually encompasses every style of music that can be associated with him – prog fans rejoice.

The first slice from the album was its title track: breezy, ostensibly pop, but like past single Postcard, there is still something about the song that elevates it. Mostly, it’s the knowledge that the song will form a part of a wider tapestry, and the music itself being subtly more than a three-minute wonder. Guthrie Govan lend a gentle, passing guitar lead, further enticing those who were won over by his pitch-perfect playing on Raven, often beautifully filling space and occasionally taking free reign and painting beautiful sonic pictures. His star is in the ascent, and praise is well deserved.

More recently, another track has surfaced: Perfect Life. Fans could perhaps be forgiven for hoping for something a little more musically chunkier, after the airy lark-drama of the title-track. Instead, Perfect Life is a less-is-more statement in understatement, which will probably fall victim to the skip button in time, perhaps unfairly.

First impressions find it to be lightweight and meandering, with Katherine Jenkins as the aforementioned female protagonist reflecting on happy memories she shared with a younger sister, over a drum-machine beat.

Later on, Wilson then reminds you whose name is on the sleeve by singing “We have got the perfect life” several times, while the electronic music gently builds. The piece is starkly beautiful in a way that Wilson is proving more and more adept at, and it remains to be seen how this fits in to the mural of the story, and how it relates to the other songs on the album.

As befalls every album, Hand. Cannot. Erase has now leaked.

 If you can’t hold on until March 3^rd, you’ll know where to look. But Steven Wilson is an individual who takes extra, extra care in crystallising the mundane and presenting it as something extraordinarily beautiful. In examples such as Hand. Cannot. Erase. he presents to the world something far more than a collection of songs; it’s art, pure and far from simple.