Recently metal has become infused with the spirit of punk. What had been a stagnant genre full of empty pomp and vapid posturing has become a valid form for populist statements of alienation. Young bands with something to say began to look to Black Sabbath instead of the Sex Pistols for musical inspiration, and gradually, despite protests from both camps, the two began to merge. Black Flag in its latter days began to sound suspiciously like a metal band, while the early albums of Metallica and Anthrax directly echoed the speed-driven angst of the Misfits and Killing Joke. Slowly, the lines have blurred.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Helmet is loud, precise, and brutal. These, incidentally, are its virtues. The band claims influences as varied as John Coltrane and AC/DC, though its connection to the great and influential Chicago hardcore band Big Black might be more apparent–and not simply because of Steve Albini’s contribution as engineer on one of their songs. Helmet shares that band’s fascination with control and tension, and with the harsh textures of aggressive riffing guitars and shouted voices pressed low in the mix. And although it’s questionable whether Helmet would ever have the elan to cover Cheap Trick’s “He’s a Whore,” as Big Black did with such nasty aplomb, or whether they’ll ever move past the highly abstracted yet meaningless lyrics that litter their work, their newest album, Meantime, hits the listener with a rare sonic force. For that alone they should be treasured, though one might wish they would spend a little more time writing their songs and a little less time producing them.
Helmet’s first album, Strap It On, which sold about 10,000 copies on the indie noise label Amphetamine Reptile, was best summed up by the title of its first song, “Repetition.” Viscous minor-key riffs pounded into the listener’s skull with a degree of control rarely heard in alternative music, while the bizarrely off-tempo “Sinatra” was–dare I say it?–moving. The punishing “FBLA” (Future Business Leaders of America) sounded like Bill Frisell getting impaled on a fork. Moreover, Helmet was the tightest band many had heard in years, successfully integrating an array of complex time changes and sudden melodic shifts usually considered dangerous for someone who is not Frank Zappa. It all seemed quite promising. Maybe one day, I thought at the time, they’ll be as big as Fugazi.
Other songs, like, for example, “Unsung,” about the fleeting rewards of fame, do make a bit more sense, and the riffs are heavy and impressive throughout. But as great as the record sounds, it’s hard to take too seriously a band that demeans a great riff and a good song about cynical urban degenerates (“Turned Out”) with a tossed-off chorus about Downtown Julie Brown.
