Once you get the reputation as an Ironic Contrarian Hipster, you’ll suddenly have a lot of freedom. You can sit around and watch Roadhouse and Footloose all day, and you can eat at buffet restaurants and wear stupid clothes and smoke pot before work because it’s “wacky” to be a “bad employee.” Most importantly, you can throw away all your cool records by Stereolab and Built to Spill and listen to stuff that’s actually good. This mostly equates to classic rock, new wave groups with female vocalists, Fleetwood Mac, any band from Sweden, and hair metal. If questioned about these choices, you simply scoff and smile condescendingly at your accusers. It also might be a good idea to tell them they need to “think outside the box” (or something like that), but you must say it in a way that indicates you would never actually use that phrase in a real conversation, despite the fact that you always do.
Unfortunately, there will be a point where someone will call your bluff. There will come a day when someone will say, “Hey man, I don’t care how far outside the box you think—there is nothing cool about owning Iron Maiden’s Best of the Beast.” And if they are serious and if you are not stoned, you will be forced to host a serious argument about the musical merits of heavy metal.
Arguing for the aesthetics of hair metal probably seems like an impossible task. There are no respected sources to provide support, and you can’t simply suggest that the sonics are too complicated for the average listener to understand. There is no high road. You can tell people they just don’t “get it,” but that’s really a self-defeating argument. Opponents will inevitably insist there’s nothing to “get,” and they’re not going to feel any regrets about missing the nothing that you are apparently “getting” and making it into “something.” In other words, they will pretty much have you over a barrel, and your only recourse will be insisting that Ani DiFranco is trying a little too hard to look ugly, which really isn’t that compelling of a point in most musical debates.
Usually, the fundamental strategy in prometal arguments hinges on an insistence that most metal is horrible. In order to seem rational, the metal advocate is constantly saying things like, “Yeah, I agree that most of those bands did suck, but …,” and then they try to build a larger point out of the ashes of a seemingly negative confession. They admit that hair metal did not succeed in a macro sense, but it was sometimes brilliant in a micro sense. This is the only way to seem like a sensible person (it’s the same philosophy one uses when trying to support the Libertarian Party).
What’s so frustrating is that this kind of statement actually applies to every genre of music (metal included). That’s the reality of rock ’n’ roll: Just about every band is absolute shit. Listen to the Sub Pop 200. Listen to any disco compilation or punk retrospective. Listen to 98 percent of the ska bands that emerged in the mid-1990s (or most of the originals, for that matter). The overwhelming majority of what you’ll hear will be wretched. And it generally seems that fans know this, even though they might not feel comfortable admitting it. Few people listen to entire albums, even when they’re released by their so-called favorite band. The single biggest force driving the compact disc revolution was not sound quality, nor was it durability: It was the convenience of being able to hear a specific track instantaneously, and then being able to move to another track as soon as the previous one got boring (usually, about two minutes and thirty seconds into a tune). Record reviewers spend way too much time analyzing albums in their entirety; this is because most rock writers have a problem—they like music way too much, often to the point of idiocy. It’s very common to see an album panned because “there’s not much beyond the single.” I don’t think that kind of logic matters. For example, Tubthumping by Chumbawamba has proven to be a more important album than Bob Dylan’s Grammy Award–winning Time Out of Mind, simply because Chumbawamba’s disc offered one great song that defined the moment of its popularity. I don’t think there’s any question about which of those two LPs will be more fun to find in a jukebox twenty years from now.
OKAY … so we’ve established that all popular music is basically crap. If your opponent agrees with that assertion, I suppose it essentially makes the rest of the argument moot, but arguments never end this way. You will inevitably keep talking and arguing and loudly scoffing and telling the other person to shut the hell up, and (at some point) you will need to explain what was good about heavy metal in a musical sense. And this can be done (sort of). There are a handful of metal records that are simply good—and I challenge anyone who disagrees to fight me!
Still, I’ve always found it a bit silly whenever someone makes a list of “essential” albums. None of my albums are the least bit essential to anybody, myself included. I mean, food is barely essential—most people can go two days without eating before they start gnawing at the flesh of their own grubby paws. Air is essential; water is essential; I suppose defecation is essential, lest you die of your own toxins. However, the Velvet Underground are never “essential.” People always ask me questions like, “If you were stranded on a desert island, what five CDs would you want to be trapped with?” My answer: Five of those twenty-six-dollar remastered Pink Floyd discs that are made out of twenty-four-karat gold. The content of the disc is irrelevant; I simply assume gold would be malleable enough to pound into an arrowhead so I could kill myself a wild boar. Gold is also nice and shiny, which is ideal for bartering with the natives (maybe they could trade me a kayak or something). Things that are essential are things that keep you alive.
Of course, once we get beyond semantics, I would have to begrudgingly admit that I love my CDs. They give me a lot of pleasure, and they remind me of better days. And that’s the criteria for the following list of “Nonessential Hair Metal Records I Really, Really Like.”
It’s always difficult to set up parameters for this kind of list. First of all, it’s basically impossible to find an indisputable definition for what qualifies as “hair metal.” I don’t want to exclude any good bands simply because they didn’t wear mascara, and I don’t want to strictly limit this catalog to releases from 1980 to 1989. So instead of specifying what records I will consider, I’ve decided to simply outline the albums I won’t consider.
Every rock record is eligible for this list, with the following exceptions:
1.) No Led Zeppelin albums. Just about every Zeppelin record is better than just about every record on the following buyer’s guide, so I don’t see any sense in mentioning the obvious. This is the material that created hair metal. There is no value in measuring teachers against pupils.
2.) No Ozzy-era Black Sabbath albums. Same justification as Rule No. 1.
3.) None of the first four Van Halen albums will be considered. Same justification as Rule No. 2.
4.) No alternative bands that some people would call heavy metal just because they’re loud (Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Primus, Nine Inch Nails, etc.). Even though they might display sonic similarities, it comes from an entirely different aesthetic sensibility.
5.) I will not include any KISS albums from the era with makeup, nor will I list any Aerosmith albums from their 1970s drug phase. Skip back to Rule No. 1 if you’re still confused.
6.) No multi-artist compilation albums released by Rhino Records after 1995. No multi-artist compilation albums sold on TV, either.
7.) No “seminal influences.” (For example, I’m not going to throw in the White Album just because “Helter Skelter” is on disc two and it would make me seem like a better student of pop history.)
8.) I will include no albums that are only noteworthy for having a cool title. In other words, I am resisting the urge to include Bangkok Shocks, Saigon Shakes, Hanoi Rocks, even though it’s unspeakably fun to type.
9.) No Alice Cooper concept records, and no Alice Cooper records that seem like concept records (which—as far as I can tell—is the entire Alice Cooper catalog before he started to suck).
10.) Finally—and here’s a big one—no albums from groups who have no logical reason to be listed here. If
no reasonably informed person would classify a given artist as a “metal act,” I’m not going to put them on this list, even if I could make a semi-entertaining argument as to why they warrant inclusion. For example, the guys in Oasis may have been groupie-shagging coke addicts who could out-rock Trixter eight days a week—but “Acquiesce” ain’t metal, and both of us know it.
I’m not listing these records in any real order, except that—at the conclusion of every review—I print the amount of cash someone would have to pay me never to listen to that record again. I call this the “Jack Factor.” Personally, I have little love for money (especially after reading Tuesdays with Morrie), but bones are the only means our society has to measure stuff. As part of that society, I must do the same. To me, that’s always the best way to measure how “essential” something really is—if you can’t buy it off me, it must be pretty important. You might want to look at it as rock criticism via Ayn Rand.
Now, when I say that I would “never listen to something again” for X amount of dollars, realize that I’m not insane. For example, I’m not going to jump out of a moving car if “Sweet Child O’ Mine” comes on the radio. I’m not going to walk out of my sister’s wedding reception if the DJ spins Out of the Cellar. What it means is that I would remove the CD from my collection, never buy it again, and never actively put myself in a situation where the primary goal would be hearing the music. It may be worth noting that I currently earn an annual salary of $54,400 and my rent is $605 a month. My car is not paid off, and I will be repaying my student loans until 2004.
So, keeping this in mind … let’s rock shit up, bitch!
Van Halen, 1984 (1984, Warner Bros.): More obligatory than necessary, the videos off this album were much better than the songs. It’s certainly the least groundbreaking VH record from the David Lee Roth years (in fact, I sometimes think the middle section of 5150 actually has way better songs). However, it’s probably the best effort from producer Ted Templeman (the drum sounds on 1984 are particularly stunning). It also provides multiple examples of Van Halen’s longtime secret weapon: the backing vocals of bassist Michael Anthony. The all-time single-best illustration of Anthony’s wonderful harmonizing is on the “Ooh, baby baby” part from “Dance the Night Away” on Van Halen II, but 1984 has a larger bank vault of Anthony larynx-oriented gems.
I’ve never been informed as to why “House of Pain” was finally included on this LP, since that’s one of the oldest songs in the Van Halen catalog (you can hear versions of it on bootlegs from 1976). It’s probably just supposed to be a treat for the type of metal trivia fanatics who win bar bets by knowing that Edward Van Halen soaks his guitar strings in honey. (Jack Factor: $66)
L.A. Guns, Cocked and Loaded (1989, Polydor): In the same way that Mudhoney has become famous for being the guys from Green River who didn’t join Pearl Jam, L.A. Guns will always be remembered as the guys who hung out with Axl but didn’t become Guns N’ Roses. Since they kind of jumped into the fray late (their debut LP was in 1988), they never really had an opportunity to be superstars (in fact, I think a lot of people assumed they called themselves “L.A. Guns” to gravy train off GNR). Nonetheless, they quickly developed a small-yet-loyal fan base. At the time, there was a minirivalry between Guns N’ Roses and Mötley Crüe, and a lot of the Crüe supporters saw L.A. Guns as an espoused rival to Axl’s group, prompting them to buy Cocked and Loaded as a show of solidarity for Vince Neil.
On the whole, this is a better LP than most people would like to remember. Tracii Guns was a workmanlike virtuoso, and he produced several shards of semi-wicked metal (“Rip and Tear” being the best of the bunch). Of all their efforts, Cocked and Loaded has the least amount of throwaways (which is a nice way of saying Cocked and Loaded still has a little too much shit on side two, but that’s no sin). If you remember this album at all, it’s probably for “The Ballad of Jayne.” As soon as they got the taste of success, L.A. Guns took the Aerosmith route and pushed a prom song, which will always be a pretty fast way to get famous. (Jack Factor: $80)
Scorpions, World Wide Live (1985, Mercury): As a general rule, I hate all non-KISS, non-Cheap Trick live albums, but this one demands inclusion (if for no other reason than it seemed to remind all their peers that metal bands were socially obligated to make at least one shitty live record). Considering how much the people of Canada love Rush, one has to assume that Germans literally worship the Scorpions. I mean, what else is there? Kraftwerk? Warlock? I’ve always wondered if the Scorps somehow represented the German culture (kind of in the same way the Cardigans and Whale seem to reflect Scandinavia). If they do, I will never go there, regardless of how fast I get to drive.
The big-ticket item on WW Live is “Rock You Like a Hurricane,” the breakthrough hit about rocking like a hurricane. I tend to prefer the studio version off Love At First Sting, but maybe that proves I only rock as hard as a tropical storm. I wish they would have included “Love Drive,” the best tune this band ever made, but it’s not here. In fact, the smart Scorps shopper might be better served by buying the 1989 compilation Best of Rockers n’ Ballads, which (at least according to the title) should cover both poles of the Scorpions’ guitar-charged ineptitude. (Jack Factor: $92)
AC/DC, Back in Black (1980, Atlantic): Just about everyone in the free world perceives Back in Black as AC/DC’s ultimate contribution to society, and I suppose I agree, which generally makes me wonder how this band got so popular. But they obviously knew what the fuck they were doing: This record sold 14 million copies, and I suspect it will be recertified platinum every three years until the apocalypse.
Prior to Bon Scott’s vomit-gorged death, AC/DC was a legitimately intriguing group, particularly when they were saying “Oi!,” whacking girls in the head with billiard cues, and/or inspiring Richard Ramirez to kill people. What’s unfortunate (or perhaps admirable) is that this album made all of Scott’s catalog obsolete: Unless you’re a serial killer, AC/DC will forever be remembered as a buzzsaw guitar band, and that’s mostly because Angus Young was so stunningly effective on Back in Black. On the strength of two particularly captivating tunes—“You Shook Me All Night Long” and the bone-crushing “Shoot to Thrill”—Young cemented a certain kind of guitar tone that would influence every ’80s metal band that wasn’t interested in being cute (and eventually Veruca Salt, who actually were). (Jack Factor: $98)
Ratt, Out of the Cellar (1984, Atlantic): Until Appetite for Destruction exploded in ’88, this was probably the single-biggest record to rise from the L.A. glam scene. Even though Ratt never seemed as popular as Mötley Crüe, they initially sold better; “Round and Round” was able to score more consistent radio play than “Smokin’ In the Boys Room” and “Looks That Kill” combined.
The best songs on Out of the Cellar tend to be the “hits,” which equate to “Round and Round,” “Back for More” and “Wanted Man.” To be honest, the rest of the record hasn’t aged that well. Ratt struggled with the fact that they had a rote delivery; they seemed a little too musically serious and never had the luxurious sleaze factor of the grittier Sunset Strip groups. They were able to slide by on the strength of an unappetizing band name and smart marketing (the Out of the Cellar cover shot was a postapocalyptic image of Tawny Kitaen that made them seem auspicious), but all they really had were a few good songs and Stephen Pearcy’s bangs. In 1985, they made a second album (Invasion of Your Privacy) that sounded exactly like this one, and it did the same sort of business. I guess I’m still a little bit confused as to why we all loved this band, but I know we did, because I still remember playing every one of these songs over and over and over again. We simply could not resist the awe-inspiring power of Ratt ’n’ Roll. (Jack Factor: $110)
KISS, Lick It Up (1983, PolyGram): This was the first KISS record to feature the band unmasked (which somehow didn’t happen on Unmasked), and it’s the only one where psychopathic axe genius Vinnie Vincent was on board for all the playing and composition. Vincent clearly dominated the songwriting sessions (
he gets credit on eight of the ten tracks), and Lick It Up sounds vastly unlike all previous KISS records. The other guys in KISS swear he’s a jackass, but Vinnie’s artistic template ultimately set the direction for the band’s next four or five efforts.
When left to his own devices, Vincent plays incredibly fast. Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley forced him to slow down and play behind the beat, which was an attempt to mimic Ace Frehley’s style (Simmons refers to this as the “monster plod”). The only song where Vinnie is able to shred maniacally is “Fits Like a Glove,” which is (ironically) one of the only two songs he didn’t help write.
By and large, Lick It Up is a pretty good hard rock record and the catalyst for KISS’ recovery as a platinum-selling artist. It’s got quite a bit of filler (which was an all-too-common problem on every KISS record from the ’80s), but the better stuff—“Fits Like a Glove,” “All Hell’s Breaking Loose,” and the title cut—proved that Paul and Gene could make competitive, contemporary metal music for a second (third?) generation of KISS fans. If Lick It Up had tanked, one might speculate that KISS would have folded—or maybe they just would have reunited with Ace and Peter ten years earlier. (Jack Factor: $125)
W.A.S.P., Live … in the Raw (1987, Capitol): After three studio albums, W.A.S.P. had quickly established themselves as the most sexually depraved rock band in America. As far as Tipper Gore and the Parent’s Music Resource Center were concerned, W.A.S.P. was Public Enemy No. 1, mostly because they liked to pretend they were butchering women onstage. Tipper Gore was actually the best thing that ever happened to W.A.S.P.; thanks to the PMRC, the band got famous for a song virtually no one in America had ever heard—“Animal (Fuck Like a Beast),” a track that Capitol refused to release (and was subsequently distributed as an “underground single” on the Music for Nations label).
That song isn’t on this record, but most of W.A.S.P.’s better material is. None of their studio albums were spectacular; the best was probably 1985’s The Last Command, which was recently re-released with a bonus cover of Mountain’s “Mississippi Queen.” (For reasons that shall forever remain unknown, the entire W.A.S.P. catalog was re-released by Snapper Music in 1998, as if these works were somehow lost musical treasures that demanded further examination.)
Fargo Rock City: A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural North Dakota Page 17
