The Mars Volta
De-loused In The Comatorium
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The Mars Volta
De-loused In The Comatorium
Strummer/Universal, 2003
RiYL: Fugazi, Rush, At The Drive-In, Sparta |
And it's hard to go further than that -- into the technical skill, into the lyrical labyrinths, into the naked energy of the whole thing -- without reducing language to a series of either self-referential smackdowns or gratuitous praise. Which is, in fact, something to wholly celebrate -- it's getting harder and harder to be honestly intrigued or disturbed by music these days.
Take a look around. Commercial hip-hop is a joke, garage rock (save for the White Stripes, whose revision of black music lies far beyond simplistic distinctions) is a moneyed fantasyland for corporate robots, and sometimes the indie cats just aren't even trying. In a recent interview with the legendary Bootsy Collins, I asked him if P-Funk could happen today and he said, "Nope." Because it's so much easier to hole up in your apartment with Pro Tools and do it all yourself, which is a democratic dream come true, but not much of a musical challenge. Growing and stretching isn't required; a stellar publicist is.
The Mars Volta -- the brainchild of the now-defunct At The Drive-In's Omar Rodriguez and Cedric Bixler -- doesn't need a publicist, because the music speaks loudly for itself. Full of muscular guitar, ferocious drums, howling vocals, and more effects banks than you can imagine, De-loused In The Comatorium is a mindfuck waiting to happen, if you let it. Based on the sad tale of Rodriguez and Bixler's friend, Julio Venegas -- who was one seriously fucked-up kid -- Mars Volta's newest joint is the rock opera Pete Townshend or Jimmy Page would have written if they grew up on punk.
Lost in a hallucinatory coma and compelled by both oblivion and redemption (smells like Tommy), Venegas battles his own self-destructive demons and vain hopes for purification until he finally gives in to the death that has followed him around since childhood. But this isn't sadcore, or some Nick Cave fever dream -- Mars Volta have quite possibly made the toughest rock and roll album in recent memory, a fitting kiss-off to their dear punk rock friend.
Although it contains 10 tracks, De-loused really holds only eight conventional songs tied together by ornate musical threads, which -- if you do the math -- means that there isn't a radio-friendly (read: short) tune to be found in the whole cathartic mess. Songs mostly come in over the seven-minute mark, making this collection a serious throwback to the days of helmet-sized headphones and alcohol-fueled introspection. That or long, dark drives, and if this is your cup of hemlock, then start with the disc's best song, "Cicatriz ESP."
I literally can't tell you which stage of Venegas' journey this tune is about -- I have no idea really; lyrics aren't included -- but there isn't a more powerful, dynamic, and multifaceted song being released today. Buttressed by riffs with more meat than a Texas killing floor and a drum pattern that would make John Bonham blush, "Cicatriz" is a 12-minute barnburner that kicks sonic ass until its halfway point, where it proceeds to disintegrate into a gorgeous, pile of tangential guitar solos and reverb atmospherics. That is, until it is reinvigorated around the 10-minute mark, where Bixler's scattered shrieks are compounded into a visceral critical mass. There are other potent songs on De-loused, but "Cicatriz ESP" is a shining example of what punk, prog, and rock can do when they're liberally mixed without pretension and posture.
And, yeah, I said pretension, because one man's pretension (an accusation levied at De-loused at length, as if being creative and challenging were the same thing as being pretentious) is another man's innovation. Take the frenetic "Roulette Dares (The Haunt of)" for example, which starts off sounding like a Drive-In tune right off of Relationship Of Command or "Rascuache" from the Vaya EP, but ends up having more movements than Beethoven's "Eroica." Wavering between Rodriguez's ear-shattering thrash and soulful accentuation or Bixler's banshee howls and lonesome moans, "Roulette" spends its seven minutes thumbing through rock's various structures and conventions before discarding them altogether in favor of extended atmospheric fits.
These fits are by no means wasted energy and invention either; in fact, their cumulative effect lands Mars Volta, on accident or on purpose, squarely within musical tradition. The intricate structures of "Lanterns" recalls everything from U2's "Wire" to Zeppelin's "Achilles' Last Stand," the exploratory middle of "Cicatriz" alludes to Pink Floyd's "One Of These Days" and "Echoes", while the entire album owes a major debt to Rush and Fugazi. And did you ever think you'd see those two bands in the same sentence?
Words cannot adequately describe what the overachieving Mars Volta has accomplished here, and yeah, that's saying a lot, especially in these days of saturation and hype. But one thing even the naysayers have to admit -- unlike the so-called garage rockers and hip-hop artists on MTV, Bixler, Rodriguez and crew (especially the amazing Jon Theodore, whose peerless drum work is the album's irreplaceable backbone) have inarguably put their blood, sweat, and time into this effort. One thing this album is not is lazy or aimless. Like a heat-seeking missile, Mars Volta screams headlong toward its target and blows the shit out of it for good. And God knows our sorry musical landscape needs a merciless shakedown. Do we really need another Ramones or Stooges knock-off?
To hell with that noise. If this dense, motivated masterpiece is exactly what Bixler and Rodriguez had in mind when they decided to break up At The Drive-In, they should be given genius grants and set adrift in Rick Rubin's house more often. Without a doubt, this is the best album of the year so far. I just hope that the industry gives them the type of backing they deserve, because shit like this doesn't happen every year. Just ask Radiohead.
SCOTT THILL |