‘Changeling’, Clint Eastwood’s latest effort starring Angelina Jolie and John Malkovich, is based on the sad tale of Christine Collins, a woman whose son was murdered and replaced by another child in a horrific case of LAPD corruption. In this special feature, we will investigate how closely Eastwood stayed to the true story.

See the FILM REVIEW for background to the film

The Characters

The film’s main characters are largely reproduced faithfully, allowing of course for artistic embellishments and dramatisations. Christine Collins, Walter Collins, Arthur Hutchins, Reverend Gustav Briegleb, Captain J.J. Jones, Captain James E. Davis, the attorney S.S. Hahn, Gordon Northcott and Sanford Clark were all real characters.

Despite the paucity of material on the personalities involved in this 1928 case, it appears that at least Jones, Briegleb, Hahn and Northcott were characterised faithfully. Captain Jones (Jeffrey Donovan) was indeed a callous police captain who operated under Chief James “Two Guns” Davis of the LAPD, itself an institution that was corrupt, brutal, violent and murderous. Davis’ men were licensed, indeed, encouraged to shoot to kill anyone in the act of committing a crime. They were in fact a gang of hitmen with badges, a legitimised posse of gunslingers carrying out personal vendettas and selling their protection to the city’s criminals. Adverse publicity made the LAPD anxious for a quick PR success, hence their intolerance of Christine’s dissent. Christine Collins filed a civil suit against Jones for incompetence, apparently winning $10,800, although it is unclear whether the money was actually paid out. Chief Davis was dismissed, but later reappointed by the equally corrupt (or at the very least, incompetent) Mayor of LA, Frank Shaw.

Reverend Gustav Briegleb (John Malkovich) is depicted as a radio preacher in ‘Changeling’, although none of the 176 mentions of him between 1921 and 1943 in the Los Angeles Times report that fact. His good friend, Methodist minister R.P. Shuler, did however conduct a radio ministry. They were both community activists and partners in highlighting the corruption of the police and city officials.

Although Briegleb is played by the exuberant Malkovich, it appears that he really was a larger-than-life character, once raiding a gambling operation in a circus tent with Shuler, and barely escaping serious injury when its patrons moved to attack them. He railed against vice, lewd dancing, gambling and Hollywood morality. There are unsupported accounts that he was anti-Semitic, but he was ahead of his time in how he viewed women and their role in society and he champions Christine Collins’ case against the LAPD through the film.

Sammy “S.S.” Hahn (Geoff Pierson), the attorney who takes up Christine’s case on a pro bono basis was also a flamboyant character with a penchant for the theatrical. He took up the cases of some of the most famous and controversial people of his day, including hoaxer Aimee Semple McPherson and convicted murderess Louise Peete, one of only three women ever executed in California. He had a sharp wit and an oratorial manner, and although enjoying relatively little screen time in ‘Changeling’, his character was given ample dimension by Pierson. Hahn committed suicide in 1957 by tying two concrete blocks around his neck and jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool.

Gordon Stewart Northcott, one of the men eventually charged with the ‘Winehouse Murders’ was brought alive by the immense talents of Jason Butler Harner, and from contemporary accounts, it appears that he got it spot on. Dr. S. M. Marcus, an LA psychiatrist who examined Northcott prior to the trial, declared that he possessed three of the nine classifications of the “constitutional psychopathic inferior”. He was “a pathological liar, a criminalistic individual and a sex deviate”.
He loved the media attention he got at the trial, grandstanding and sending detectives on wild goose chases in search of more bodies. He undertook his own defence after firing three court-appointed defence attorneys in succession; while defending himself, he put himself on the stand as a witness, asked himself questions, and then answered himself. Northcott, as was shown in the film, did also toy with Christine Collins, alternately admitting and denying the murder of her son throughout the trial.

Christine Collins (Angelina Jolie) herself is a relative enigma, as little or no information can be found on the public domain on her, possibly because unlike the others, she was less of a public figure. Scriptwriter J. Michael Straczynski (TV’s ‘Babylon 5′) based his portrayal of Christine on actual transcripts of the Collins hearing, and photographs of her show a determined, steely woman – the strength in her set jaw and flinty eyes belie the trauma she has undergone.

According to Northcott’s final notes left in his cell, he did not think she believed him when he assured her that her son was dead, and she never stopped searching for him. Jolie’s portrayal of the development of a woman, from timid single mother to indomitable crusader via trial by fire and ordeal, is as persuasive, human and emotional as possible.

A major character that is missing is Northcott’s mother, Sarah Louise Northcott, who confessed to the murder of Walter Collins, and was sentenced to life in prison for her crime. She initially confessed to all the murders to save her beloved son Gordon, but was only convicted for Collins’, as she was adamant that she had delivered the fatal axe blow. She served no more than 12 years of her sentence before being released on parole, and she probably died four years after her release.

The Facts and Events

While Straczynski sticks true to the story, around 90% of it at least, there are some important occasions where he departs from the actual events, the major one being the omission of the character of Sarah Louise Northcott. Also, in the film it is implied that Northcott murdered up to 20 boys before being apprehended. This was based on the unsound testimony of Sanford Clark, and no hard evidence was ever adduced to support this claim. Northcott was convicted for the murders of three people: the Winslow boys, Lewis and Nelson, and an unidentified Mexican ranch hand, possibly a Jose Gonzales who was 15. His mother, Sarah Louise, was convicted for the murder of Walter Collins.

The supposed bodies at the ranch never amounted to more than a finger, scraps of hair, a piece of scalp and a piece of skull. There were three empty open graves, and it is a likely assumption that Northcott, having taken fright at Clark’s disappearance, moved the bodies out into the Mojave desert. The number of 20 was also more likely to have been the number of missing children at that time: it would have been a reasonable, though unfounded, speculation that Northcott was responsible, but certainly he did not hang for the murder of 20.

There is nothing to support the ending of the film either where, five years after the trials and execution, David Clay, a boy thought to have been murdered by Northcott, turned up alive and well. In the film, this supposedly gave encouragement to Christine to go on searching for Walter in the hope of finding him, but in reality she needed no motivation. She spent the last documented years of her life pursuing the civil suit against Captain Jones and the city in hopes of using the damages to keep the search going. In any case, the sordid story of Northcott died with him on the scaffold – only he truly knows how many and who he killed.

A throwaway line uttered by the impostor Arthur Hutchins, the true changeling of the film, could have benefited from either more elaboration or its exclusion. As Hutchins was being bundled on to the train with his real mother, amidst the flashing bulbs and yelling reporters, he cries “it was the police who made me do it!” This raises interesting questions of whether the police were complicit in the deception, or whether it was the precocious young scamp who cooked up the whole story and maintained the subterfuge till the very end.

If Eastwood/Straczynski had intended the issue to be raised, they should have elaborated a little, otherwise they risk muddying the facts of the case. Either way, there is nothing more to suggest that the police were anything other than incompetent, although from what we now know, malicious deception would not have been beyond them.

This feature was written for the Biography Channel, and can be found here.

Director Clint Eastwood tells the sad story of Christine Collins, a young single mother whose missing son, Walter, was murdered by a psychotic murderer, Gordon Northcott. Her frantic pleas to the incompetent and corrupt LAPD led to an impostor being forced upon her as her son. Her adamant pleas to the contrary saw her thrown into a mental ward and subjected to shock therapy, while the authorities’ delays may have proved fatal to Walter’s survival.

Cast

Angelina Jolie
John Malkovich
Jeffrey Donovan
Jason Butler Harner
Eddie Alderson
Devon Conti
Michael Kelly
Colm Feore
Amy Ryan

Director

Clint Eastwood

Plot

This is the true story of Christine Collins and her search for her missing son, Walter Collins. Walter disappeared from their home in Los Angeles on 10th March 1928, and Christine has to battle the corrupt and publicity-hungry LA Police Department when they foist off an impostor on her. Interwoven with her heartbreaking tale is the story of Gordon Northcott, a bloodthirsty serial killer who kidnapped and murdered young boys, with Walter Collins among one of his suspected victims.

Verdict

A schizophrenic and disjointed effort from Clint Eastwood, but superb acting from Jolie, a typically offbeat performance from Malkovich, a chilling serial killer in Harner, as well as a stellar supporting cast (especially Donovan and the two lead child actors, Alderson and Conti) pull this one through. The film could have done with more focus and finesse, but it is ultimately a heart-rending and emotional tale that will force a tear from even the coldest eye.

Review

‘Changeling’ is based on the true story of Christine Collins and her battle against the Los Angeles Police Department in her search for her real son, Walter Collins, who had gone missing from their home on 10th March 1928. The LAPD, in its hunger for positive publicity, foist off an impostor on her, telling her that it is her son despite her pleas to the contrary.

At the same time, the story of Gordon Northcott, a brutal murderer and media whore suspected of kidnapping and murdering Walter along with up to 20 other boys, is told. Director Clint Eastwood attempts to treat all the various themes the subject matter throws up in equal measure, while telling a compelling and gripping story at the same time.

Eastwood’s storytelling is factually correct to negligible fault, but it is his willingness to give the actor his head and let him play the character with minor interference that encourages such strong individual performances. Eastwood’s directorial philosophy is based on his experiences as an actor and a movie star, hence his infamous dislike for multiple takes and over-egging the pudding.

This is not to imply a diminution of his directing input: stylistically, ‘Changeling’ consciously strives hard to recreate 1920s LA (employing a washed out, sepia-ish tone), and the story drives along with typical Eastwood strength and forthrightness. But it is the acting that is really the highlight of ‘Changeling’.

After being snubbed last year for ‘A Mighty Heart’, Angelina Jolie will surely be nominated for an Oscar for her performance as Christine Collins – her heartbreaking take on the plight of a young single mother fighting against the indifference, corruption and chauvinism of the all-mighty LAPD to regain her lost nine-year-old was tapped from wells of emotion that Jolie, a mother herself, can identify and sympathise with (digressing slightly, how ironically cold and heartless does the word “sympathise” sound in this context?).

The further agony of learning that her son was murdered and possibly tortured and sexually abused by the sadistic Northcott, and her inability to move on due to Northcott’s alternate and continued confessions to and denials of Walter’s murder, are all artfully and emotionally captured by Jolie.

Two of her most memorable and highly praised dramatic roles are recalled, as troubled model Gia Carangi in ‘Gia’ (1998) and as rebellious mental hospital inmate Lisa Rowe in ‘Girl, Interrupted’ (1999) – the parallels to the latter film are more than simply incidental, as Jolie’s character spends a good 20 minutes incarcerated in the county mental hospital at the order of the LAPD.

A close second is Jason Butler Harner, whose portrayal of serial killer Gordon Northcott was sensitive and maniacal to the point of discomfort. The superior screenwriting allowed him to express Northcott to the fullest, but the credit for every nervous tic, every eye-rolling frenzy, every gleeful giggle and whimpering breakdown must be laid at the feet of Harner. As Northcott the murderer, he is scary; as Northcott the fugitive, he is contemptuous; as Northcott the prisoner on trial, he is hateful; but as Northcott the prisoner condemned to hang, he is pitiful and pathetic, and very touching.

The standout scene must be the sequence when he is led to the gallows: the bravado which he has maintained throughout the trial and in front of the media fails at the sight of the gibbet and the rope, he has to be dragged, nearly carried up the steps. He screams “not so fast, not so fast”, pleads to the prison chaplain “I’ve changed, I’ve repented, haven’t I?”, whimpers “will no one say a prayer for me?”, and then, in a reedy cracking voice, sings “Silent Night” before the trap opens and his neck is broken. This will be one of the iconic execution scenes in movie history, right up there with ‘The Green Mile’ (1999) and ‘Braveheart’ (1995).

Other stellar performances included Jeffrey Donovan as the callous Police Captain J.J. Jones who bullies Jolie into accepting the impostor as her own son, and one of the film’s genuine moments of black hilarity comes when he tells her to take the child home and “try him out for a couple of weeks”.

John Malkovich as the fearless Reverend Gustav Briegleb, who punches in Christine’s corner, is typically kooky, and even in a serious film such as this, it’s hard not to smile at his well-known exaggerated, over-pronounced style of diction.

The two young actors who play Sanford Clark (Eddie Alderson), Northcott’s assistant and eventual whistle-blower, and the impostor Arthur Hutchins (Devon Conti) deserve special mention for their roles as well. However, for a film with the title ‘Changeling’, the role of Hutchins is not adequately explored, as Eastwood tantalises us with a throwaway line uttered by the boy: “The police made me do it!”, referring of course to his reasons for maintaining the subterfuge, without ever elaborating.

So far, no complaints can be made about the acting. But ‘Changeling’ could have done with some balance and a bit of tightening up. As mentioned before, Eastwood tries to tackle the subject matter and its themes equally, which comes across in a rather unfocused and disjointed way.

The main spotlight of the movie could have been on any of Christine Collins, Walter Collins, Arthur Hutchins or Gordon Northcott. With a title like ‘Changeling’, one might expect more emphasis on the impostor, but Eastwood gives all of the adult leads equal importance, arguably to the detriment of the overall effect of the story.

For example, at the beginning we see Christine’s emotional turmoil at the loss of her son and the arrival of the replacement, her battle against the LAPD, her incarceration and so forth; and then there is a period of time when the screen is taken over, in lurid detail, by Gordon Northcott and the murders, the events leading up to his arrest, and his subsequent trial – where Christine features very little. It feels very much like two separate stories connected by the tenuous link of Walter being murdered by Northcott: the story of Christine, and the story of Northcott.

It seems as if Eastwood tries to heap too much onto his plate, thematically as well. The concerns he raises are admirable, and would each in themselves benefit from a full treatment, but this rather disrupts the flow and balance of the movie. For example, the feministic development that Christine underwent would have seemed natural in the circumstances, had it not been derived (and stretched) in an implausible discussion with fellow inmate Carol Dexter (Amy Ryan) in the mental ward.

Although the conclusion of that chapter provokes a rousing cheer (as well as spawning the soon-to-be immortal line “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on”), it seemed wholly unnecessary in the context of the movie at large. In fact, it seems reasonable to say that the entire mental hospital chapter, while factually accurate, was unnecessary.

Alternatively, had Eastwood wanted to make a movie focusing on the chauvinist and unjust practices of the LAPD (which is an entirely legitimate take on the whole matter) while preserving the feminist David-vs-Goliath message, a great chunk of the Northcott scenes should have been left out. It is unclear, to this viewer at least, where the focus of the movie lies.

Finally, the prize for the worst, most cliched, most hackneyed and most predictable piece of dialogue of 2008 must go to the final line that Christine utters before the credits roll. I won’t repeat it for you here, but give yourself a pat on the back if you, like me, saw it coming eons before it was delivered.

These criticisms aside, ‘Changeling’ is a superb movie and the cast and director will receive ample plaudits for their respective roles, deservedly so.

Director Oliver Stone (Platoon, JFK, Natural Born Killers) takes a look at one of the most controversial and universally disliked men in modern history, George W. Bush.

Cast

Josh Brolin
Elizabeth Banks
James Cromwell
Ellen Burstyn
Richard Dreyfuss
Toby Jones
Thandie Newton

Director

Oliver Stone

Plot

Oliver Stone asks how a man who struggled all his life with his personal demons transformed himself from reprobate and well-known black sheep of his esteemed family into Leader of the Free World? ‘W.’ follows his journey from Yale frat house to Texas oilfield to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, revealing the man who would become the 43rd President of the United States – his struggles, his achievements and the consequences of both.

Verdict

A disappointing effort from Stone who is renowned for his fearlessly tenacious treatment of controversial subjects, ‘W.’ is a safe, feel-good look at the most powerful man in the world, who has been the symbol of American hegemony and arrogance for slightly under a decade. It is unabashedly sympathetic, with little to no examination of his policies as President. It is however a compelling look at the private side of Bush, especially his relationships with his wife, mother, brother and especially his father, George Bush Sr, and for that, Stone must be applauded.

Review

‘W.’ (pronounced Dub-ya) is Oliver Stone’s third shot at directing a movie that is based on a 20th century American President, after ‘JFK’ (1991) and ‘Nixon’ (1995). Stone attempts to paint a picture of George W. Bush that “we have not seen before”, as he believes that Bush’s images have been managed carefully by his team. These are Stone’s own words, and we must judge ‘W.’ according to the criteria set by himself.

In this, I believe ‘W.’ both succeeds and fails in equal measure. In ‘W.’, Bush Jr. is portrayed (wonderfully, by Josh Brolin) as a down-to-earth, honest, good ol’ Southern boy, with all the charm and hotheadedness of that particular strata of American society. He don’t set too much store by eddi-cation, but he’s a keen outdoorsman, more at home on the golf course than in the boardroom; an avid baseball fan, but a less than capable policy-maker; a natural politician with a knack for the common touch, but naïve and unversed in matters of the state. A proud Texan, ‘God Bless America’, a born-again Christian and reformed alcoholic – ladies and gentlemen, George W. Bush.

The problem is we know all this already. We all know that Bush is a straight cudgel, but not the sharpest of rapiers – he shoots from the hip and pulls no punches, which is what endears him to a certain part of the American population (roughly 50.7% in the 2004 election), and elicits groans, howls of laughter and raised eyebrows of disbelief from the rest of the world. He ain’t too smart, not like his pappy, but gosh dang if he don’t tell it like it is. ‘W.’ shows us the man behind the Man, but they’re one and the same, to the eyes of the knowledgable audience.

Where ‘W.’ succeeds is illuminating the often fraught relationship between father and son, and tying it (albeit tenuously) to Bush’s approach to the 2003 Iraq invasion. The once wayward son is shown first as a disappointment to his illustrious father and the rest of the Bush clan, but turns his life around – after giving up alcohol and finding God – to first assist Bush Sr. on the 1988 presidential campaign trail, then to make him proud by becoming Governor of Texas, and finally to challenge him in the annals of history by succeeding where his father had failed, which was to neutralise Saddam Hussein.

This tense but compelling slice of human drama cannot fail to captivate, as Bush Sr. (played with great sensitivity and strength by the ever dependable James Cromwell) dukes out the battle of generations with his son. With the wonderful chemistry between the two actors, this is the best part of ‘W.’

So too are Bush’s relationships with his wife Laura (Elizabeth Banks) and mother Barbara (Ellen Burstyn). Laura is credited with turning Bush’s life around, and Banks gives the character a steadiness and steeliness that even Brolin, the actor, must have come to rely upon while shooting. Burstyn, while having relatively few lines, turns in a hilarious performance as Bush’s mother who still harbours doubts about her son’s ability, but will support him fully at crunch time.

If Stone had left it as a pure character study revolving around familial relations, ‘W.’ would have been an interesting watch, as Bush is humanised and treated sympathetically, as are most of Stone’s protagonists (Ron Kovic, Nixon, Mickey and Mallory Knox, Jim Garrison, Sgt. Elias).

It is when delving into Bush’s politics and government that the film starts to suffer from an uneasy schizophrenia. Admittedly the focus is on Bush the man, and Stone sets out to do so (and succeeds). However, the bits of Bush’s politics that are offered in ‘W.’ are unsatisfactory – and the most one gleans from the movie is that he has very little actual say in foreign policy and government. It is here that ‘W.’ moves along to the second set of characters, that of Bush’s Cabinet, or ‘Inner Circle’.

The ‘Inner Circle’ performances vary along the board. It is a stellar cast: Scott Glenn (Donald Rumsfeld), Toby Jones (Karl Rove), Thandie Newton (Condoleeza Rice), Jeffrey Wright (Colin Powell), Richard Dreyfuss (Dick Cheney), Bruce McGill (George Tenet). Glenn and Dreyfuss have been around the block enough times for us to expect nothing less than superb performances, Glenn as the warmongering Secretary of Defence, and Dreyfuss as the equally hawkish Vice President.

Jones is suitably oily as the obsequious mandarin Rove, he is the very definition of “power behind the throne”; McGill is a flustered and uncertain Director of the CIA. Wright was disappointing as the commanding Colin Powell, lacking the gravitas and military bearing of the former Secretary of State.

But the Razzie must surely go to Newton as Condi Rice – in their anxiety to obtain maximum verisimilitude, they forgot to give Newton any good lines; in her anxiety to mimic Rice completely, she forgot how to act. Her performance was utterly forced, entirely wooden even behind the scenes. In ‘W.’ Rice was a nodding accomplice most of the time, but Newton’s constipated rictus, complete with teeth-clenched grimace, surely provokes one to wish that she had heeded the advice to go before she came. It was a brave effort at mimicry, but a thoroughly bad portrayal of a confident, strong (if conniving) woman making it big in the male-dominated world of politics.

This film therefore suffers from two major problems before filming had even begun. One would have been to satisfy the audience’s expectations to find the balance between accuracy in faithfully telling an interesting story, and portraying the characters without descending into caricature – bearing in mind that the characters are living and still fresh in the consciousness of the audience. In this respect, ‘W.’ enjoys limited success. Brolin will undoubtedly receive an Oscar nomination as Bush Jr., a playful, lovable, goofy, awkward yet charming president, son, husband and father. On the other end of the spectrum, there is Newton…

A second problem would be to satisfy members of the audience who are familiar with Stone’s body of work. ‘W.’ lacks the edginess, danger, and controversy of any of the other Stone films (other than the appallingly kitsch ‘Any Given Sunday’ [1999]). Stone built his reputation on controversy, by tackling subjects no other director would touch. In ‘Platoon’ (1986) he touched on the horrors of the Vietnam War perpetrated by the Americans themselves (see My Lai). In ‘Natural Born Killers’ (1994), he questioned the American fascination with and glorification of violence. In ‘JFK’ (1991), he opened a huge debate into the Kennedy assassination that still rages on on conspiracy theory websites today. And in ‘Born on the Fourth of July’ (1989), he highlighted America’s treatment of its war veterans.

‘W.’ has none of that. In every Stone film, he has an agenda, an angle, something to say. In ‘W.’ he appears to have finally buckled down and declared some semblance of unbiased journalistic even-handedness. Sure, there’s still the blatant Stone manipulation of facts and events, it wouldn’t be a Stone film if there wasn’t. But his famously ham-handed treatment of his agenda is usually sussed out by the audience within five minutes, who can then sit back and enjoy Stone’s master storytelling. In ‘W.’, this directness is missing. Can it really be just a story about a man? It’s too simple, too safe, too un-Stone-like…

The film plods along with gentle humour – this is a Southern drawl instead of a Bronx patter. Very few of Bush’s policies are examined in depth, other than the Iraq war. Very few of the controversies surrounding him are examined, although they must have had an effect on the man; for example, the nature of his entry into the White House in 2000, or his passing of the Patriot Act. These are mentioned only in throwaway lines, unsatisfactory to the politically savvy. Guantanamo makes an appearance, but only as a goof-up by the tongue-twisted President. Is it asking too much of the film to treat these issues with the seriousness they deserve?

There is no doubt that this film could have been so much more. On its own terms, it succeeds in showing the personal side of a man vilified by much of the world for his John Wayne approach to world matters, a simplistic man who still sees things in New Testament black and white, a naïve leader, a jingoistic patriot who believes less in the world community than in America. In a sense, Stone has done more in humanising the president than Karl Rove or his entire circus of press corps and media relations people could ever have. And yet, to a Stone fan, or to anyone wishing to see more of Bush the leader, Bush the administrator, Bush the president, this film will remain incredibly unsatisfying, for so many reasons.

Review originally written for the Biography Channel, and can be found here.

One of Canada’s premier heavy metal bands of the past two decades has fallen on hard times. Will they pull it together to record their umpteenth album and achieve their dream of playing in front of thousands of people again? A heartwarming story of human endurance.

Director

Sacha Gervasi

Plot

We follow the ups and downs (mostly downs) of a legendary underground heavy metal band as they try and revive their careers and record a 13th album.

Verdict

A magnificently heartwarming tale of human endeavour, one’s belief in human spirit will be considerably strengthened after watching this. This is a film metalheads and non-metalheads alike can and should enjoy.

Review

There are two ways you can watch this documentary. One way is how some of my fellow journos at the press screening viewed it: with amused superiority; with sniggers and snide comments about the juvenilia and general dumbassery of heavy metal musicians and heavy metal fans. They giggled at the song titles like “Sweaty Betty”. They cracked up over band names like “Anthrax”, “Slayer”, “WASP” and “Megadeth”. This was, to them, the 2008 version of ‘Spinal Tap’ (1984) – ‘Heavy Metal Parking Lot’ (1986) updated to the new millennium, but with the practitioners and protagonists still stuck behind in the halcyon days of metal back in the eighties. These smug, self-satisfied, cynical people with their infallible sense of irony, don’t get it. They didn’t get it, they won’t ever.

‘Anvil: The Story of Anvil’ is a story about rock ‘n roll. It is set in the context of heavy metal: the scene, the genre, the music, the lifestyle, the musicians, the fans. Anvil are a Canadian heavy metal band that never struck it big in their 30 year career, not even back in the day when heavy metal was in the public eye. Some of their contemporaries went on to become legends: Iron Maiden, Motorhead, KISS and Judas Priest, and later bands like Metallica. In the metal world, the name ‘Anvil’ has always been around but never mentioned in the same breath. Yet no one denies their longevity, their persistence. Director Sacha Gervasi aims to bring that to our attention, and by doing so, tells a very real, very human story.

This is the way I watched ‘Anvil’. I make no apologies for being a diehard metalhead, and my treatment of the subject matter, so very close to my heart, will inevitably be coloured by it. But I am adamant that this documentary will appeal to anyone, anyone who ever dared to dream a dream, anyone who ever faced any obstacles in their life, anyone who ever fought for what they believed in, any one who stuck it out, blood, guts, sweat, tears and all. This is their story, this is an ode to the fighters in life, the never-say-dies.

Anvil’s two main men, guitarist Steve ‘Lips’ Kudlow and drummer Robb Reiner from Toronto, now in their fifties, work dead-end low-paid jobs, but still harbour dreams of making it big. We pick up their story now, in the present, but we could have joined them at any point in time post-1991. They get an email from a tour promoter in Europe saying that she can book them a full European tour with a sampling of metal festivals thrown in. They are excited, understandably, and they gear up to go. The tour is an unmitigated disaster, they are not paid, they play in front of two hundred people (or five). Returning from the tour, they are motivated to record their 13th studio album – but will it crack them into the big time? Will they even reach the recording studio?

This is not ‘Spinal Tap’: there are no over-the-top japes or general buffoonery framed mockingly. This is not ‘Detroit Rock City’ (1999): there are no tales of crazy backstage mayhem or wild anecdotes of hedonistic practices (no Marianne Faithful and Mars Bars). This is ‘Almost Famous’ (2000) in name only; no groupie swapping or drug fuelled tantrums. This is a heartwarming story about two normal men who believe in themselves and their band. They are spurred by the thought of finally ‘making it big’, which in their parlance means tours, a record deal, and acknowledgement from the wider public for their contributions to music.

There are bitter-funny moments. At Sweden Rock festival, Lips and Robb wander around backstage like excited fans – as a metal writer, I too covered festivals, and I know the feeling of being star struck by your idols. It was painful to see Lips ask Michael Schenker (The Scorpions, Michael Schenker Group, UFO) whether he remembered Anvil, and it was heart-breaking to see Lips try and jog Brian Robertson’s (Thin Lizzy) memory of a tour they did together years ago. Likewise with Carmine Appice (Ozzy Osbourne, Rod Stewart, Jeff Beck) who played in one of their favourite bands, Cactus. In contrast, the joy on Lips’ and Robb’s faces when Jay Jay French from Twisted Sister recalled Anvil was beautiful, and pathetic at the same time. This is the delicate touch of director Gervasi in manipulating our emotions, and it’s not long before the audience starts to twig it – these guys are simpatico, we are behind THEM!

A word of warning: there is a lot of angst in this movie, there are a lot of tears, a lot of emotional talking heads. There are interviews with the Reiner and Kudlow families, revealing their difficult histories (Reiner’s father was a Hungarian Jew who survived a German concentration camp). The despondent, snow-driven tone of the entire documentary is contrasted with the determined cheeriness of the two main men – their utter refusal to face up to ‘reality’ and accept that they are stone-cold, total, utter, complete failures by society’s standards. They sincerely and totally believe in themselves, and that’s what makes it so painful to watch at times. But never once do they crave pity, only recognition. We see this in the finale, but make your own minds up as to whether they have achieved ‘success’.

This in essence is the story of Anvil. Writ large, this is human struggle at its finest, and its basic message is: do what you believe in, and fight for it. The mighty Manowar sang: “Stand and fight/Live by your heart/Always one more try/I’m not afraid to die”, and this is the spirit of heavy metal. Defiance. Courage. Optimism. Visionaries Anvil are not. Originators, certainly not. Good musicians? A matter of opinion. But heroes? Absolutely. And you cynics can stick that up your Baudelaire-quoting arses.

Originally written for the Biography Channel, and can be found here.

Fans of Guy Ritchie rejoice, because (a) he’s left Madonna and (b) he’s finally making good movies again. Coincidence? I think not.

Cast

Gerard Butler
Tom Wilkinson
Karel Roden
Thandie Newton
Mark Strong
Toby Kebbell

Director

Guy Ritchie

Plot

Lenny Cole is the man to see in London if one is interested in getting into the property game, and Uri Obomavich is a Russian billionaire who is extremely interested. Lenny is not a very nice person, having cheated the Wild Bunch, a group of toughs who are out of their depth in the real estate game and who are now in debt to Lenny.

Throw in a double-crossing vixen of an accountant, Stella, who hires the Wild Bunch to steal Obomavich’s money not once but twice; a lucky painting that goes missing; two Russian heavies who refuse to die; and a gay City lawyer, and we have a rock and rolling ride through London’s back streets.

Verdict

This is a wonderfully crafted movie that bears all the hallmarks of a classic Guy Ritchie effort. No big Hollywood names in the cast, but wonderful directing and acting lift ‘RocknRolla’ back to the heights of ‘Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels’ and ‘Snatch’.

Review

Guy sticks to what he knows and does best in ‘RocknRolla’. After ill-advised forays overseas in the rusty and clanking Madonna vehicle ‘Swept Away’ (2002) and the Las Vegas mind-bender ‘Revolver’ (2005), Guy Ritchie finally returns to the city and the formula that made his name in ‘Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels’ (1998) and ‘Snatch’ (2000).

The city is London, and the formula is classic Ritchie. We have fast-paced dialogue with dazzlingly colourful language and regional accents (I count Scottish, east London, Russian, Scouse, indeterminate American, faux-posh and pukka-posh in there). We have an insistently obnoxious pounding soundtrack and epilepsy-inducing series of jump cut action scenes, flashy fight routines with extremely bloody but stylised violence.

And of course we have the wonderfully menacing characters that only Ritchie can illustrate in such a dark yet humerous light. The characters from ‘The Wild Bunch’ are made up of such diverse no-gooders as One-Two (Gerard Butler), Mumbles (Idris Elba), Cookie (Matt King) and Handsome Bob (Tom Hardy); the Russian mob with a deliciously wicked Roman Abramovich reference in Uri Obamavich (Karel Roden); Lenny (Tom Wilkinson) the xenophobic hardman with a predilection for American crayfish, seeking to make the step up to the big time and accompanied by his faithful and loyal underling, Archie (Mark Strong); and the unbalanced junkie rock star Johnny Quid (Toby Kebbell) with the philosophising bent, flanked by his hapless producers Roman (Jeremy Piven) and Mickey (Chris ‘Ludacris’ Bridges). Uri’s incredibly sexy accountant, Stella (Thandie Newton), ticks the sex appeal, love interest, wild card and eye candy boxes admirably, although her weary sophistication tends to irritate after a while.

The plot is a terribly convoluted one, but suffice it to say that Ritchie has outdone himself this time. There are more characters, more angles and more colours to this multifaceted Rubik’s cube than in his previous underworld movies. The motivations are sex, money, power, violence and funnily enough, a small element of love. Even (here’s a teaser for you) homosexual love, the love that dares not speak its name, especially for Handsome Bob and… a word of warning: those expecting a neat conclusion to the movie will be disappointed. Ritchie has said that there will be a sequel (maybe even a trilogy) based on the characters that survive at the end.

But at the bottom of it all is Ritchie’s trademark and impeccably evil sense of humour. Writing-wise, the director revisits the heights of ‘Lock, Stock…’ and ‘Snatch’. The chemistry between the characters plays off into tense situations only barely resolved with a laugh and a biff to the head. Whether it’s a quick throwaway line by Johnny Quid, the little-Englander xenophobia of Lenny (“these facking immigrants!”), the bumbling incompetence of One-Two and gang, good ol’ gay jokes (one of the most excruciatingly hilarious moments in the movie), or simple moments of pure absurdist randomness (look out for a clip of ‘Remains of the Day’ (1993) in the unlikeliest of places), Ritchie outdoes himself. This is side-splitting stuff. Alan Horn, president of Warner Bros, thinks that ‘RocknRolla’ might be too English for the US. Hell, it might be too English for the English!

Fans of Ritchie need not worry. He hast returneth to the fold. The scenery may have changed a little – we have less of the dingy East End alleys and grubby spivs ducking in and out of seedy dives and more art museums, football stadiums, City offices, posh mansions, public schools, fancy restaurants and yachts – but the slime and grime of London criminalia infests it all. In the incestuous London underworld where everybody knows your name, Ritchie reigns.

Originally written for the Biography Channel, and can be found here.

I remember being so excited about this gig, since it was the first time I’d be going in with a photo pass (albeit with a shitty Nikon compact). Unfortunately, there was a screw up with guest list, but nonetheless, with Behemoth and Napalm Death, a mind-blowing gig was inevitable. My opinion on Napalm Death hasn’t changed much, but seeing them three times since No Mercy, I’ve come to respect their amazing live performance as well as their immense influence on the genre of extreme music as a whole.

Moonspell

with Napalm Death and Behemoth

and Root, Dew-Scented and Hades Lab

“I went into this gig not fully 100% for a couple of reasons. One, I wasn’t feeling too well, suffering a little from flu and a bad throat, not the best things to take to an extreme metal gig. Secondly I’d never heard any stuff from half the billing (the first half obviously), and was quite nervous about reviewing something I had no knowledge of. Thirdly, Manchester United were playing the second leg of the Champions League quarter finals against Roma, and needed to overturn a 2-1 deficit at home, and I have to admit, more than 25% of my mind was on the game (we won 7-1 in the end, very nice!) rather than the gig.

However I was there to do a job, that was to review the gig for Metal-Rules.com, and it was a first for me, because it was the first gig that I had managed to wrangle a photo pass to. Or so it seemed. Having been promised the photo pass, there was some mix-up between label and venue, and so I didn’t get the damn thing. So readers, forgive the poor quality of the photos (and lack of complete setlists), but enjoy a personal account of a cracking gig!

Hades Lab

I hadn’t even known there would be a sixth band until I saw the schedule posted on one of the walls. At least I had done a bit of research into Root and Dew-Scented before coming to the gig, but the appearance of Hades Lab took me completely by surprise.

I don’t know what the story is, but they took to the stage as a three-piece band: singer, drummer and guitarist, no bassist. They play a competent mix of death and hints of thrash, certainly very headbang worthy. Their drummer is very good, and the barked vocals raised the aggro level nicely for what promised to be a very extreme evening. There was no bottom end due to the missing bassist, but that only served to highlight the level of good drumming that we heard. Major complaint, the guitar could not be heard over the overly loud drums and vocals. If that’s with a bass missing, what will they sound like with one? Poor job in soundcheck and levelling.

As I write this review, I’m doing a bit of research into Hades Lab on the interwebby thingy, and find that they have quite a reputation in London already, having played with such big bands as Decapitated and Necrophagist (who I missed, damnation!) Best of luck to them for the future!

Root

The Czech Republic’s epic black metal band Root took to the stage after about 15 minutes. One good thing about having an 11 o’clock curfew is that bands have to change set efficiently or risk losing a couple of songs. Root play a quite unique form of black metal that features the vocal talents of the self styled Big Boss. His full bodied tenor was on display that left me impressed. Not that he couldn’t mix it up with death growls and screams, although understandably, some of the growling duties were handled by the other members of the band to save his voice.

I call them unique because they don’t have keyboards to soften their sound, and yet his operatic voice is an integral part of their overall effect (they remind a lot of Ihsahn and Emperor), which is to be a nasty evil black metal band. Satanic references and tributes to the Horned One were very much the order of the day, and I have to say Root do it more convincingly than most. Good quirky banter between the Boss and the crowd. Quite a good performance, although by this time my eardrums were starting to seriously hurt.

Dew-Scented

The German thrashers have a reputation that I was only aware of while talking to my friends before the gig. They have high ratings and reviews on most websites, so I was quite excited to hear and watch them.

They play a high octane mix of death and thrash (more thrash than death), and they actually sound like a heavier version of The Haunted. Readers should know what’s coming next having seen the words “thrash”, “death” and “The Haunted” in the same sentence, and you’d be just about right. Complex drumming (the death metal influences are in the drumming, think Derek Roddy or Flo Mounier), but the guitars are pure thrash, with good riffs and solos. And heavy, boy are they heavy. Loads and loads of bass kicking the wind out of your insides. A complaint is that they did get a little repetitive towards the end, but perhaps that’s because I wasn’t familiar with their material. I’d definitely go to watch them again if they came to London. My ears were really hurting now, but I wasn’t going to leave before Behemoth.

Rant of the Day 1

I’ve been to the KOKO quite a few times now, but I’ve never been very aware of the house music that plays during set changes. Unfortunately this time I WAS aware of it (which didn’t do my ears any good either), and really, for a metal show, they have to drop the emo whining metalcore playlist. For god’s sake. Please. It saps the will to live, it really does.

Behemoth

The mighty Polish juggernaut rolled onstage relatively quickly (according to a friend who watched them in Estonia, they once took 45 minutes to appear onstage), and then MY evening really kicked off. Behemoth have never been one of the bands that drop easily into one genre, or that you can say belongs to a certain sound or type. All you can say of them is that they play brutal uncompromising metal, whether death or black (as their back catalogue shows, they have had phases of both).

They pounded out all the old favourites: Decade of Therion, Christians to the Lions, Antichristian Phenomenon. They sounded tight as heck, with Nergal and co. really playing it up for the crowd. Inferno blazed through the set as well, and was very in tune with the crowd, setting the beat for the crowd chanting between songs, which is always nice to see. You don’t want bands playing in a vaccuum, determined to get through their set and nothing else. They take time to chill between songs, tease the crowd and get some banter going, all the while maintaining mood and tempo effortlessly. Inferno has to be one of metal’s most underrated drummers, and listening to him sound check was a privilege (I swear, nothing gets you right in the stomach like a death metal drummer showing off his double kicks, nothing). Following the theme of understatement, I would consider Nergal to be up there with some of the finest metal guitarists today as well. Definitely hope they come back to London soon, and play a longer show. A 45 minute set is criminally short.

Rant of the Day 2

The KOKO was really empty for what I thought was a pretty good lineup. In comparison with the other times I’ve been (Kreator and Blind Guardian among others), the numbers and the atmosphere were seriously lacking for this gig. I would even go so far as to say that it was half empty (the KOKO was formerly a theatre with two or three levels other than the ground level, and usually two of the three levels would be packed – on this occasion everyone was on the ground level, not a single soul upstairs). Even on ground level, it wasn’t super packed, and for us standing up front, it was a relative doddle. I certainly didn’t experience any major crushing, and was even able to move around relatively freely. Perhaps it was the £20 ticket (which for six quite good bands is a steal!), or the fact that it was on a Tuesday night, or there was some plague in central London, but it really was puzzlingly empty.

Napalm Death

Right, I’m sorry but I don’t like this type of music. I like musicianship in metal, and while I don’t doubt that Shane, Mitch and Danny are good musicians, two minute blasts of noise I don’t consider as metal or music. They have rightly been regarded as kickstarting the grindcore genre, and fans of that kind of music revere them as titans. Fair and fine and well, but not my cuppa tea. Best to leave it at that.

Quick note: Barney’s, umm, “unique” stage movement, left me wondering if there was an escapee from the local school for special needs children. He really looked like an overgrown “special” kid. I know I know, in metal, we do not judge by appearance (if we did Nick Barker would be out on his arse a long time ago), unlike the fatuous and superficial worlds of pop and rap-crap bollocks. We judge by musicality and skill and talent and sincerity and passion. But seriously, Barney’s movement on stage really did not make me take them any more seriously than when I heard their one-second song “You Suffer”. Sorry, but there it is.

Good things do come out of bad situations though, as I spent most of the 45 minute Napalm Death set at the back, kicking back and chilling out, much like the people I derided and mocked in a previous review. In the spirit of self conscious irony, I also managed to have a chat with a very nice bargirl, who funnily enough, and to my lasting chagrin and hers, was into art house, which is some form of club music apparently. It’s a funny old world we live in.

Moonspell

Again, another band I’m not too familiar with. They have soldiered on with workmanlike determination over the years, and yet cannot be said to have taken the metal mainstream world  by storm. The Portuguese dark gothic metal merchants have hovered somewhere on the fringes of my consciousness, oft-mentioned but never really materialising. How my eyes were opened last night.

They really put on an awesome show. A friend I was with was a little sceptical about the presence of a doom band among extreme metallers, more so headlining the Fest itself with a 1 hour set. Our scepticism was quickly dispelled with the first song. I can’t name any, firstly because my ears were a little fucked by then (definitely will invest in some ear protection the next gig I go to – it’s not cool to lose your hearing at age 21), and also because I don’t know any of their material well enough. However Moonspell fans will know their old concert favourites.

The entire experience made it one of the best shows I’ve been to. The stage set up was remarkable – a little mini city and cool backdrops set the tone with soft mysterious red lighting doing the rest. Two sets of keyboards made me wonder a little about the composition and possible imbalance in the sound at first, and visions of TWO keyboardists mucking about with synth nearly made me chuck the whole thing in and go home. Luckily I didn’t. I don’t remember how the two keyboards were used interchangeably, but I do remember that the one in front swivelled, so their keyboardist Pedro Paixão could alternate between keyboards and guitar. Singer Fernando Ribeiro was in fine fettle, his voice effortlessly dropping between clean and growl, and he was a ball of movement as well. My perception of doom gigs usually entails a static singer moaning and keening into the mike stand, but he was thrashing and bashing with the best of them.

Regarding their sound, it was remarkably good from what I could hear. The keyboards NEVER once threatened to overpower the guitars (which to my mind are the essence of a metal band), they were there to enhance and add a different dynamic to the sound. Where Napalm Death previously wanted to steam roller everything in their path, Moonspell subtly seduced you and then delivered the crushing riffs to kick you up the arse. And melody, never once losing the melody.

We always talk about the relationship between metal band and metal crowd, and critics might cynically remark that the bands do their nightly love-in with the crowd of X (like the Spinal Tap episode in the Simpsons, where the singer sticks the name of the city they’re playing in on the back of his guitar as a reminder) as a matter of course. I sincerely beg to differ. One can tell when someone on stage is faking it – except bubblegum pop fans I suppose – and as much as a metal crowd loves a band on stage, if they sense that the band isn’t giving it its all they’re quick to pick up on it. And metal fans have long memories. All the bands gave their thanks and appreciation to the crowd (who lacked the numbers somewhat), but Behemoth and Moonspell in particular stand out. It’s always nice to see.

Last words on Moonspell? They give credibility to their style that has become tainted with its association with weepy weedy female vocals, unconvincing “death growl” male vocals, over-use of synth, boring and plodding tempos, uninspired and unimaginative guitars and drumming and overall poor lyrics and songs. Moonspell bring aggression to the table, while retaining the melody and epic atmosphere.

Rant of the Day 3

First time I’ve actually bought a drink at the KOKO, and prices were extortionate! If it wasn’t for that cute bargirl I’d never have put the best part of 15 quid behind the bar.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jan at Century Media for attempting to get me on the guestlist, although it didn’t work out too well, but thanks for the effort!”

This review was originally written for Metal-Rules.com and can be found here. Do check us out!

Click HERE for the photo gallery.

Hades Lab

Root

Dew-Scented

Behemoth

Napalm Death

Moonspell

Seeing Marty for the first time was pretty overwhelming, as I’d watched most of his instructional videos while trying to develop myself as a guitarist. He was a great influence on the way I myself approached the guitar, but of course, his legendary stint as Megadeth guitarist can’t be ignored.

Marty Friedman

and Area 54

“Anyone calling himself a metal fan needs no introduction to Marty Friedman. Anyone calling himself a guitar aficionado needs no introduction to Marty Friedman. On the off chance that a non metalhead non guitarist is visiting Metal-Rules.com, where should we start with Marty Friedman? Ah heck, go and Wikipedia him, I’m here to talk about the gig in London.

Touring on the back of his latest solo album LOUDSPEAKER, Marty Friedman takes an accomplished band with him on a journey that includes Holland, the UK, Germany and Israel. He is accompanied by the wild and wacky Ron Jarzombek on guitar, the experienced drummer Jeremy Colson and bassist Chris Catero. For the London leg of the tour, they are joined by local boys and winner of the numerous best-new-band awards in the year 2000, Area 54.

Area 54

I have mixed feelings about this band. I’d never heard of their material before tonight so I was going into this completely unbiased. What I heard alternately disappointed and excited me. They started off the evening with sheer pace and energy and never let up. I’ve not seen a band so energetic on stage since Dragonforce. The two guitarists swapped places every five seconds on a tiny stage the size of a Subway sandwich, almost never pausing for a moment. On that tiny stage, us front row people nearly had our heads taken off every time they spun and got into position for mock guitar duels. They played the gig like it was a 10 000 strong arena: in this tiny club of capacity 300 at most, they posed, preened, and basically acted like million dollar rock stars (think Kiss and Manowar). They definitely had stage presence, and their confidence was amazing. I’ve never seen a drummer ham it up so much, he almost forgot to drum!!! Stick twirls, OTT drum rolls, exaggerated cymbal crashes and highlighted extended splashes, with the accompanying facial expressions of agony, ecstasy, humour and pervo. Their guitarists had obviously watched School of Rock and taken a few lessons to heart: legs wide, wider, wider – time to solo, lean back, eyes closed mouth open and orgasm. “Scream for me Long Beach Arena” you expected him to cry.

It’s unfortunate then, that their music was really nothing to shout about. In a day when bands are popping up daily thanks to MySpace, you really need something to stand out, and I think Area 54 need to take that extra step to be a band people will talk about. Their performance was competent and high octane, and certainly worthy to headbang to. However their material felt like recycled Iron Maiden riffs and Metallica solos. The bass was there to provide low end, nothing else. He played nothing worthy of note all evening, he kept the groove well and followed the rhythm guitar, but nothing else. The drummer, as mentioned before, was busy preening and posing, which was good for a laugh, but also did nothing of substance. He kept the beat, injected some humour and aggression, but did nothing else. The guitarists, while able to play and definitely possessing the technique (and flashy fingers!), but they also seemed one-dimensional, and there was nothing that was really able to hold the interest for very long. At times, they seemed to be playing the same thing. For god’s sake, with two guitars in the band, use them! Arpeggiate, or play a harmony, or in a different key, or some fills, anything for some variation! There were some nice twin solos and harmonies that had me going for a while, but it sadly tapered off. Their only highlight of the evening as far as I was concerned, was their performance of Megadeth’s Tornado of Souls, which was not bad and certainly had us moving and singing along.

They certainly have potential, and the guitarists certainly have the skill to make it in the metal world. Sadly, they need to buck up their ideas and find something fresh. I’d take their music over nu-metal riffing any day, but that’s not saying much either.

Marty Friedman-san

Ah so! The great Marty Friedman on our doorstep, and I could hardly wait. The man best known for his work in Cacophony and his collaboration with Jason Becker, his omnipresence on Japanese TV and the Japanese music scene, his instructional videos and guitar clinics, as well as his endorsement with Ibanez. And of course, the small matter of Megadeth, where as far as I’m concerned, he comprised the classic lineup that will be THE Megadeth for many people.

Marty for me always stood out from the other guitarists, I have to admit, firstly because of his weird technique, both left and right-hand. He performed in Malaysia once, which I missed, but a friend told me about this numbskull who, at the Q&A session asked Marty why he had such a silly looking technique. Understandably Marty wasn’t too happy about it.

But he also stands out in the way he approaches the guitar, as a trade and as an art. He made his name with Cacophony and Jason Becker, where he could be said to have equalled Vinnie Moore and Yngwie Malmsteen in the fad-of-the-time, the neo-classical shred era. However, he branched off to Megadeth and their brand of thrash metal, imparting his unique style onto classic albums like RUST IN PEACE. But he’s never been one to tie himself down to one genre or style. Where Malmsteen kept producing the same thing over and over again, where Michael Angelo Batio seemed more intent on breaking the sound barrier (and being a complete dick while at it) than writing good songs, where people like Impellitteri and Vinnie Moore rose, shone brightly and faded away, Marty has kept reinventing himself and his special brand of guitar playing. His instructional videos are to be recommended to any guitar players of any level of proficiency, because his philosophy is simple yet profound: Be different.

We all know Marty can shred (MUSIC FOR SPEEDING was aptly named) but he also has something that Michael Angelo and Impellitteri don’t, that is the ability to slow things down. He has an impeccable Vai-esque ear for harmony and melody, he has the ability to ask what fits the mood of the song other than a 32nd blazing three-note-per-string scalar run. Honestly, ask yourselves, when was the last time you heard Marty use a generic pentatonic blues scale? Weird bends, funny scale patterns, Eastern, Oriental and Arabic influences – they all make the listener sit up and take note. And so The Underworld in Camden, London was ready to sit up and take note.

Chants of “Marty! Marty!” greeted him as he launched straight into the set. His classic MUSIC FOR SPEEDING was well represented, as was his newest (IMHO, better) album LOUDSPEAKER, although there was only one from TRUE OBSESSIONS. You got a sense that we were in for a treat tonight. And we were duly treated to a virtuoso performance. The band as a whole were very good. Ron Jarzombek is an extremely good guitarist, and it certainly must be a tribute to Marty’s playing that Ron is willing to take a back seat. Not that he couldn’t speed it up and flash it around too, oh boy, did he ever when given a chance. Chris is an absolute monster on bass, a real livewire and a massive ball of energy. He showed us what he had with a few subtle and probably unnoticed licks that really enhanced the performance.

But the star of the evening did not disappoint, no sir he didn’t. Perfect execution of the songs, seamless transitions, brilliant and flashy solos, crunchy and aggressive rhythms, melodic, heavy, fast, in-your-face, mellow, emotional, pissed off, raunchy, sweat-dirt-and-cowboy-boots, we saw and heard it all. Highlights surely must include the emotional “Devil Take Tomorrow” and “Lust for Life” (I told you I liked it when he slowed it down!) and the fast and upbeat “Elixir”. I only have a couple of tiny minor insignificant gripes. One is that his stage banter can be improved. I mean, 300 screaming fans can’t have overwhelmed him so much that he lost his tongue??? Two, his jokes were awful! Work on it Marty! Three, he kept chucking picks to the centre and back of the crowd, when everyone knows that it’s us poor saps in the front row that lined up for two hours outside the venue to get front row, whereas those at the back came late, or couldn’t be bothered with the opening band, or put the demands of their bladder and/or thirst before the show. Work on it Marty!

Seriously though, it was a great night for all who came, and the band looked like they enjoyed themselves as well. The crowd definitely did. And the signing and photography session afterwards was just the icing on the cake. Here’s hoping that Marty passes through the UK again!

Setlist:
1. Namida
2. Elixir
3. Anvils
4. Gimme a Dose
5. Street Demon
6. It’s The Unreal Thing
7. Fuel Injection Stingray
8. Stigmata Addiction
9. Lust for Life
10. Devil Take Tomorrow
11. Tibet
12. Angel
13. Paradise Express
14. Ripped
15. Cheer Girl Rampage
16. Thunder March
Encore:
17. Ballad of the Barbie Bandits
18. Dragon Mistress
19. Hound Dog”

This review was originally written for Metal-Rules.com and can be found here. Please do check us out.

Click here for the photo gallery.

Marty Friedman

Area 54

This was the first ever review I posted on Metal-Rules.com and I can’t tell you how excited I was to be finally contributing to such an awesome website, one that I had been reading and visiting for my metal news and views ever since I first got into metal in 2000. Things do change quickly in a year and a bit though. On September 9th 2008, Celtic Frost announced that they had disbanded, due to irreconcilable differences between Tom G. Warrior and Eric Martin Ain. Tom has recently started his own band, called Triptykon, which apparently plays a form of doom very close to MONOTHEIST-era Celtic Frost.

Kreator

with Celtic Frost

and Legion of the Damned and Watain

“My first ‘gig’, so to speak, for Metal-Rules.com started off freezing cold. London has been relatively warm for the past few weeks, but it chose today of all days to hail and snow and bluster while I was standing in line for 2 hours to watch the mighty Kreator at KOKO Camden. Bollocks to that for a start.

That being said, it’s really worth the wait once you get inside. You get your ticket torn nicely, there’s no queues, you can take your time at the cloakroom, choose whatever you want from the merchandise store, buy a beer at the bar, take a slash (‘pee’ for Americans) in the toilet in peace, and most of all, you get to stand right up front. And there’s no better place in the world to be than right up front. Nothing between you and heaven on stage but a steel barrier.

Watain

The show started quite promptly at half past 5, due to our extremely stupid and strict licensing laws. The first band was Watain, a black metal band from Sweden. The stage set up was very detailed and atmospheric, with inverted crosses and a doom-gloom backdrop. The band itself was even more of a spectacle. Decked out in the normal outfits of corpse paint (none of your sissy normal corpse paint, this was rotten corpse paint), black leather, enough silver chains and spikes to sink a battleship, etc, but it didn’t stop there. The singer, who really looked like he put in a lot of hours in front of the dressing room mirror, was festooned with dead mice. No, I kid you not. Dead mice. Real or not, I wasn’t anxious to find out either. They played a decent set, with pretty good black metal. The drums were pretty kickass, although the riffs were a bit humdrum. They were very energetic, although the sight was too comical for me to take them seriously. Maybe I’m not black metal enough…Decent band, check them out.

Legion of the Damned

The next band deserves a worthy mention, Legion of the Damned from the Netherlands. I’d never heard of them before, but they really impressed the crowd. It was fitting that they opened for Kreator, since it is obvious who their main influences are. You can hear a lot of the German thrash big 3 in them: Kreator, Sodom and Destruction. I can’t praise them enough, they really rocked the crowd, they were very appreciative of us and we gave it back to them. They are definitely a band to watch out for, very promising indeed. A minor gripe, one I have for Grave Digger and other bands with only one guitarist, is that the aggression of the song is lost when their guitarist gets to his solo bit. But my god, the sledgehammer riffs are pure aggression during the body of the song, the singer barking his lines and the bass and drums never letting up the assault on the ears. A great band to open for the mighty Kreator.

Celtic Frost

But first we have the old boys from Switzerland, Celtic Frost. Originally a threesome, they are joined on tour by V Santura, former Dark Fortress guitarist. I have to say up front I’m not a big fan of Celtic Frost. Their music has inspired many other musicians (even Nirvana, if you believe Wikipedia), but to me their music has never done anything for me. Perhaps their music has always been a bit far out, a bit left field for me.

First gripe about Celtic Frost is that they take too damn long to appear on stage. Yes, I understand the need for heightening expectations. Yes, tension needs to be built. Yes, the atmosphere and tone has to be set. Yes, yes, yes! But dammit all, you don’t need 10 minutes of synth to build the intro, not especially when the crowd has predominantly come to see Kreator. After the high tempo and energy of the previous two bands, the endless synth noodling brought down the pace somewhat. When they finally appeared on stage, they looked impressive. Martin Eric Ain looked a monster and his bass looked awesome, and he had on some black Druidic robe. Tom and new boy V Santura both sported Icemans (very cool!). Tom in a black ski cap (sigh), but at least V’s face paint looked very well done. But when they started playing, I was not impressed. Procreation (Of the Wicked) isn’t the best song to start off the night on. Slow, plodding, dare I say it, even dull. Thankfully it kicked soon into Circle of Tyrants with good riffs and double bass drumming pounding me in my gut. Good ol’ Celtic Frost, service was resumed.

Unfortunately, the pace was again interrupted by the rantings of Martin. Yes, trying to get us into the mood of things (not much trying required, we WERE in the mood already), but seriously, “Do you respect the dead? You should, because we are all soon to be *dramatic pause* dead” and a two minute long speech about “attending mass” – and I’m pretty sure I heard a mention of his mother in there somewhere, but lost what he was trying to say halfway – are not the best ways to keep the flow going. The 15 minute penultimate song Synagoga Satanae was quite good with progressions that ebbed and flowed. But close with a downer that is more endless synth noodling, well, I’ve already said what I have to say.

Celtic Frost are good for those who like them, that’s all I can say. As a non-fan, I shouldn’t perhaps criticise, as everyone that I could see was having a good time. Celtic Frost fans might see my criticisms as the whole point of Celtic Frost, but they just don’t do it for me. I had a good time, headbanged along and generally yelled when told to yell. I don’t intend to damn with faint praise, perhaps a fan of theirs could do more justice to a Celtic Frost gig than I can.

1. Procreation (Of the Wicked)
2. Visions of Mortality
3. Circle of the Tyrants
4. The Usurper
5. Ain Elohim
6. Necromantical Screams
7. Dawn of Meggido
8. Mesmerised
9. Sorrows of the Moon
10. Dethroned Emperor
11. Morbid Tales
12. Into the Crypts of Rays
13. Synagoga Satanae
14. Winter (Outro)

Kreator

Unlike Celtic Frost, Kreator seemed to want to come on stage pretty quick! Frost’s drum set was dismantled in double quick time, the new drum set was set up and the fancy backdrops and projecter screens went up faster than a helium balloon on steroids. Good start!

I have to admit again up front that I am a huge Kreator fan. They remind me of my other favourite band Metallica in more ways than one: the original music that was praised and that created a massive following, the descent or departure from that, the criticism that ensued. But unlike Metallica (who I still idolise by the way, even after “all that”) Kreator have returned to the fold, the prodigal son, the pregnant rebellious teenager coming home to her parents, cheating husband to adulterous wife, forgiven and forgotten. With albums like “Violent Revolution” and “Enemy of God” to take off the bitter taste left by “Endorama”, who wants to hold a grudge?

Mille and co have lost nothing over the years. Slowing down? Hah! Not a bit of it! Flurrying right hands drilling out razor sharp riffs, the machinegun drums and new boy and guitar hot shot Sami laying down some neat solos. About as perfect as perfect can be. The set list reads like a Best of Kreator, and it was. Old favourites revisited, new ones established. When they pounded out the riff of Violent Revolution, it felt as if my head was going to snap off. Paradoxically, it also felt as if it were on the verge of simultaneously imploding and exploding. I have a multi-directional cranium…

Back to the band though, there was nothing wrong and everything right about the performance. Mille sounds as angry as he was back in the day. A lesson to Celtic Frost, here’s how to make a minute long speech and maintain the momentum. Take a leaf out of Mille’s book, his speech introducing Betrayer, a vitriolic profanity-laden indictment of government and politics of today. Wonderful, an intellectual subject dressed in a non-intellectual guise!

It’s hard to say anything else about this band. We all know they can rock stadiums or tiny clubs, but their engagement with the audience is the same, anywhere they play. They appreciate us, and we appreciate them. This is the metal band-metal fans relationship, which is possibly quite special and unique in music today. This is after all the joy of the entire genre, and its pinnacle is watching the band you love, through curtains of flying hair and eyelids of sweat, live on stage, skullfucking the shit out of your sorry arse.

1. Intro (The Patriarch)
2. Violent Revolution
3. Pleasure to Kill
4. Some Pain Will Last
5. Enemy of God
6. People of the Lie
7. Europe After The Rain
8. Suicide Terrorist
9. Awakening/Behind/Renewal
10. Extreme Aggression
11. Phobia
12. Betrayer
13. Voices of the Dead
14. Reconquering the Throne
15. Impossible Brutality
16. Flag of Hate”

This review was originally written for Metal-Rules.com and can be found here. Do check us out!

Watain
Legion of the Damned
Celtic Frost
Kreator