First on First - Black Sabbath

Imagine it's 1970, you go to the record store and this creepy album cover with the name Black Sabbath catches your eye. Is that the band? The title? Is this the soundtrack to the movie?  If I touch this, will I be possessed by demons? Maybe. Or maybe you'd heard of them in passing, briefly, but nobody was playing their music on the radio and you didn't have access to any bootlegs of their John Peel session from the previous year or really even knew about it. There was no Internet so it's not like this kind of thing spread that quickly or pervasively. You are scared and intrigued by the cover, and you tend to be a little adventurous when buying music, so you buy it, getting maybe a concerned look from the old man behind the register, run home and drop the needle on the record, and instantly the world is never the same again. And I'm not even talking about the whole album, just the first song - "Black Sabbath" by Black Sabbath on Black Sabbath.

Rain, thunder, bells and then dread. I could be wrong, but I have yet to hear anything that sounded quite like this before the arrival of Sabbath. Sure, there were some acid influenced, heavy bands and theatrical, progressive acts with dark sounds (Deep Purple, Jethro Tull, Arthur Brown, etc) but none of them came close to the level of doom and evil Sabbath captured just in their very first song.Whether it's Iommi's sinister guitar chord invoking demons from hell, the rolling bass and ceremonial drums of Butler and Ward, Ozzy's vacant and haunting/haunted voice or all of this and more, coming together, the chills are instant. Then there's that pace of the verses, so slow and creepy, before the icing on the Satanic cake as Ozzy screams out in very real terror "OH NO!!" Those screams are, in my view, a huge part of his legacy, bringing a sense of outright terror and agony to all his songs, and it's there from the very beginning.

The album as a whole shows a bit more range, and includes what may be my actual favorite Sabbath tune, "N.I.B." which somehow manages to balance groove, blues and doom in a way I still don't fully understand. That the album was basically recorded live in one day is just further fuel for the legendary status of the album and the band. But as far as first songs on first albums go, "Black Sabbath" is iconic in every possible way. It's a mission statement like no other. That mission is, of course, led by Satan and you were either scared shitless by the invitation or you were enticed by the darkness and rewarded for it. Guess which one I am.

Best Albums of 2015: Number One

If one album, one artist, can be credited with me coming back to heavy music it's the one at the top of my list. Once I heard this album, I couldn't stop and I kept trying to find other bands that would come close to what I loved about this. This is doomy and heavy but it's not just that. There's a range and more than that, it is deeply personal and moving in unexpected ways. It reminds me of specific things I loved about metal as a kid, is clearly influenced by those things, and yet not frozen in that time. It's Crooked Doors by Royal Thunder and as far as I'm concerned, it's really a masterpiece of an album.

Back in 7th grade, early on in the year that a bunch of kids from other elementary schools filtered in to my tiny world, I met a guy that let me borrow an album by an artist that I'd certainly heard of, in urban legends and warnings, mostly, but had never actually listened to. That cassette tape of Ozzy Osbourne's Bark at the Moon opened my ears and mind to a world of darkness that would speak to me very closely for the next few years of outcast pubescent confusion (new album?). The internal turmoil and mental anguish about the world that was captured more by the tension of the music itself than by any specific lyric, and manifested in a black catharsis (another album?), is exactly what I was going to need and that moment is a major turning point in my life. All of this is what Crooked Doors brings to something you wouldn't necessarily think of at first: the break-up album. And that's basically what this is about - the end of a marriage, specifically between singer/bassist Mlny Parsonz and guitarist Josh Weaver - though it also includes some explorations into breaking away from cults and brainwashing, which come to think of it, is kind of the same thing.

This album has an overwhelming emotional cohesion to it that only reveals itself with more listens. The opening track "Time Machine" sets up the entire journey of regret, resentment and rebirth in a beautifully bittersweet way. "I'm looking for a time machine, but I can not go back and change one single thing, it's staying all intact," sings Parsonz, using the more vulnerable side of her commanding vocal range, over a tune that slowly builds into a power ballad with so much power that there are moments you forget the ballad part completely. But it's toward the middle of this seven minute wound baring that the song goes into a certain free fall motif that will be repeated several times and in different forms throughout this album, firmly gluing the entire thing together as a whole. And then it builds towards a solo from Weaver that would demand full blown torches be held up by the audience. And this is just the first song!

The story of Parsonz and Weaver includes a stint in a cult, which they left long ago, but it informs several songs on this album, particularly "Floor" which is about a specific "ritual" Mlny was put through at this church. Not only do you get the sense that this time in her life is important to the issues of the relationship and the break-up, but it is an incredibly apt subject to include in this context, regardless. "I can feel him fall me, I can feel him fall on me, I am trembling, what is happening to me, white wash this memory," she wails at one point and she could be talking about some god, some cult leader or her husband. And then there's "this is such a mess, I know that there's something more, something tells me this is over, now open these doors," which really requires no further comment. The point here is this is a person at a major crossroads in her life and that comes with realizations, repercussions and resignations that are overwhelming, freeing and melancholy. The fact they continue to play music together speaks volumes about their friendship and commitment to their art, but I'm sure there's a cost and these songs are like the beautiful scars that remain. And not only do her lyrics convey this in both direct and indirect ways, but the music always supports it.

That free falling motif I mentioned earlier comes through most in the slightly more ballady "Forgive Me, Karma" which opens with several falling guitar runs before going into a what is just a slight tease of Parsonz sweetest singing. Evan Diprima's drums particularly stand out to me during the quieter moments of this song, providing what could be the backbeat to the cosmos itself. By the time we get to the double farewell punch of closers "The Bear I" and "The Bear II" you should feel somewhat exhausted, and these two straight up ballads got your back. But they might tear you up with heartache.

I really can't say enough how great Parsonz is vocally, lyrically and emotionally. There are moments where you hear her strain for a note that maybe someone trying to achieve perfection, rather than honesty, would avoid. But strain she does, and she doesn't care if you hear it. That strain that shows up every so often is a huge part of what pushed this album to my top spot. That last song, "The Bear II" featuring Parsonz singing over piano and strings, in anyone else's hands might come across as too syrupy or overdone, but when she sings "and I wish I had the heart to move on, but I am not, no I am not that strong," it's like an invasion of privacy on our part instead of an exploitation of emotion on hers. And to have gone through an entire album where her voice is mostly about power and loudness, and end on this note of broken vulnerability is the bravest thing she could do and ultimately the biggest demonstration of her power.

Los Frikis

Back in the mid 80s I entered Jr. High and suddenly a bunch of kids from nearby elementary schools came along to disrupt the group I'd pretty much known since kindergarten. One of those kids lent me Ozzy Osbourne's Bark at the Moon album on cassette, and the rest is history. A history that can best be summed up by the word outcast. For our whole Jr. High career, a small group of us "rockers" were the rebels in a sea of Miami Bass loving adolescents. Interestingly, the smaller group of kids who were discovering punk at the time were much quieter about it and under the radar (and many times I've wished I'd given these kids more of a chance, but that's for another post.) We knew we were right, but what we didn't realize at the time, I think, is how lucky we were. Meanwhile, in Cuba. . .

I often talk about the power of music and I'm usually focused on a more personal, human aspect of that power. But sometimes, that can lead to much bigger repercussions. You can't talk about 60s music without making the connection between the Civil Rights movement, Vietnam protests and everything else that happened politically at the time. And it wasn't really the first movement to have a soundtrack. Dylan was inspired by Woody Guthrie and his songs, many of them protest songs, coming out of the Great Depression's Dust Bowl. Punk rock's roots, especially in the UK, were political as well, hence the Sex Pistols' "Anarchy in the UK" and "God Save the Queen" and The Clash's "London Calling" among many, many others. And in more recent times, Russia's Pussy Riot comes to mind.

And those are all just obvious, explicit examples of artists making music as protest. But beyond that, music has the ability to change lives even unintentionally. Today I heard a podcast that demonstrates this in moving, dark and complicated ways. As a Cuban American in Miami, discussions about Cuba can often be very black and white. This can lead to frustration on both sides of that divide. It's not as simple as a generational line, though. And while we may disagree among st ourselves, I think we all get frustrated by how the rest of the world views the Cuban situation. This is most clearly demonstrated by the fetishizing of Che Guevara as a symbol of rebellion (which only becomes more ironic when you hear the podcast). But this isn't a political blog, I only point these things out for context. And the conclusion is that we need more human, universal and real stories about life in Cuba and I heard one today on Radiolab's Podcast titled "Los Frikis," thanks to my wife's recommendation. And like her recommendation, I don't want to spoil the details. But be prepared because it twists and turns in some nihilistic, truly punk ways that are none the less, somehow beautiful at the same time. Just listen.