Review: Killing Joke - 'Killing Joke [2003]'

And there, in the title of this slab of pure fury brimming with intelligence, is the first warning to the uninitiated about the sheer size of Killing Joke’s colossal sonic testicles: that this is their second self-titled album.

This is entirely appropriate as a title, marking as it does a point of rebirth in the band’s history – a history that makes the story of your favourite band read like a council memo on lamppost legislation. The Joke are about as recharged as a musical act can be without actually spontaneously combusting: there is enough energy and sonic intent here to level cities.

Doubly interesting, then, that the band sound is completely stripped back, which pushes each instrument so far into your face that the collective aural beast manifests as a clenched fist. There is nowhere for the listener to take refuge, nor any let-up in the pacing. It’s the musical equivalent of a sound beating after spilling the pint of an intellectual.

And as usual, the forefront intellectual is Jaz Coleman – either a ranting, bug-eyed madman or one of the few to musically spew truth pearls into people’s faces in the hope that they’ll sit up and take notice (In this review, he is the latter).

Such is the skill, that fact is intertwined into memorable hook. ‘Five corporations earn more than forty-six nations!’ Coleman bellows on Blood On Your Hands. Total Invasion, meanwhile, has the sneering ‘Only fools won’t know, they haven’t been told/their empire’s run on the old black gold’. The sense of a shouted history lesson prevails.

The relentless barrage is also the great flaw of the album, one you don’t notice for a long time. Killing Joke pummel the listener senseless here, which is fine, as they do it with intelligence.

However, in concentrating on one of the things they do best, their other abilities are kept shut out, namely the talent in crafting danceable tunes and music with a sense of exploration and/or adventure, namely Bloodsport and Communion respectively as just two examples.

Nevertheless, for what Killing Joke is, it knocks out the competition with a swift knee to the balls and a diatribe on the state of the world. None do it better.

Review: Faith No More - Sol Invictus (album)

For longer than anyone would admit to remember, in a moment of feverish 'Christ, I'm old' panicked realisation, Faith No More have been enthusiastically leapfrogging genres and expectations required of the ostensible rock band. Effortlessly embracing funk, rap, metal and everything else and soldiering it into their own bizarrely unique yet entirely accessible package, they have consistently proved themselves lovably versatile.

Fans who still can't get the taste of Angel Dust out of their ears need to calm down, however, as Sol Invictus stylistically seems to carry on where 1997's Album of the Year left off. This isn't to say Faith No More are stuck in their own past - instead, this new effort sits all the more comfortably next to its bigger discographical brothers.

For there isn't the effortless shit-kicking genius of their most celebrated disc, enveloped in an otherworldly alt-sheen, but instead the sound is far punchier. Sadly this means less atmosphere-creating synths from keyboardist Roddy Bottum, reduced to piano jingling here. However, the band don't sound like they are transmitting from a dimension of their own dimension - on Sol Invictus they have both arms down your throat, and Mike Patton's hydra-headed range of voices and styles finds copious employment, always to startling effect.

Lead single Motherfucker almost collectively drew an 'Oh' moment, considering the long wait for new material - prickteased by the band's reformation and series of gigs from 2009 onwards. It's a dark, brooding track that is almost entirely composed of a great slowly swelling buildup that overshadows its payoff, dissipating like a fart. The track sits strangely amongst its brethren, an odd choice for the band's first single in 18 years.

And the brethren it sits amongst appears to form its own musical rock face, better heard and easier appreciated as a dark and twisted whole. Few cuts stand tall with both fists flicking the V's, save the manic groove of Superhero.

But for a sorely-missed band such as these, not only is any return to action a cause for jubilation, the added bonus of a comeback album that isn't complete doo-doo is an absolute boon.

Review: Gojira - Les Enfants Sauvages (CD/DVD)

For a band with a planet-sized sound (that is probably as heavy as one, too), it’s only fair that they should have larger and larger venues to turn to dust. And it’s here, in Brixton’s cavernous Academy, that Gojira prove once again that they are one of the genre’s most exciting bands.

The term ‘heavy’ appears everywhere like a bored child with a label-making machine, but the French foursome manage to exceed the term with this slightly short set of tantalisingly tight rhythms, titanic guitars and Joseph Duplantier’s guttural vocals that still retain a sense of melody – and are intelligible as well as intelligent. Indeed, Gojira’s awareness of the world around them, articulated amongst the barrage of thunderous riffs and kick-drum beats, also helps them to stand out even more.

A tripping point for many bands can be whether their sound can translate well enough to the live setting – see Muse, but perhaps not System of a Down – but an excellent mix and a slick band sound bring as much of the studio as possible to the stage, while adding some more to it.

This cements them as a must-see live act (I dragged a friend to their Birmingham Barfly gig in 2009 – knowing nothing about them and not preferring heavy music, he came away impressed), and will hopefully be yet another facet ensuring their longevity.

And to top it off, the packaging for the CD/DVD combo is in a hauntingly beautiful hardback book. Filled with monochrome tour photography of the band on stage and on tour, this helps to cover for the slight disappointment of a lack of DVD extras. 

As if it weren't already obvious, Gojira have reminded us again via a wallop to the ears that they are ones to cherish.