deus ex machina

muse's black holes & revelations

 

SPACE, the final frontier...

alright, i'll admit it, that was a pretty cheesy opening, but gimme a break. that's the first thing that pops into my head when i listen to muse: the far reaches of outer space. and with good reason too. muse are the epitome of space rock. their music is soaked in synth-pop stylings and tie-dye psychedelia and it's chock-full of astrological references and sci-fi lore, but that's not all...

their music goes beyond the confines of space rock. it's like their style is stuck in some phenomenal time-warp, tangled in the wrinkled fabric of spacetime, somehow simultaneously in two places at once. a paradoxically contradicting oxymoronic riddle wrapped in a enigma. yup, that's muse in a nutshell. they're kinda like schrödinger's cat—god, don't you just hate obscure physics terms! on the one hand, the music's part enlightenment-age, on the other hand, part space-age. 18th century baroque meets 21st century prog-rock. and of course, there's that not-so-subtle oh-so-sultry spanish tinge that pops up from time to time. all in all, this protean quality makes black holes & revelations one ginormous clusterfuck of musical styles and, at the same time, one helluva great album.

____________________________________________________________________________

stardate 000000001: take a bow . . .

houston, we have lift-off...

a synthesizer cyclone of pentatonic flurries, right outa

pink floyd's dark side of the moon cascading

like a black-and-white tornado all over

the monochrome flatlands of Kansas

sucking you into its violent wake

spitting you back out into the

middle of a RAVE! with a

techno drum beat kicking

in with a trance-inducing

unce-unce-unce until

the song reaches its

climax, collapses

on itself with the

mighty roar of

feedback and

the hiss of

static

.

stardate 000000002: starlight . . .

it's comforting to know that some things never change, even throughout the ages. case-in-point: the torch song, a time-honored genre with a looong and colorful history, all the way back to when adam met eve. the 15th-century heartbreaker "greensleeves" set the standard, but the 21st century's "starlight" does the genre justice. the only substantial difference i can tell is in instrumentation; forgoing ye olde harp in place of some angry-sounding newfangled electromatic thingamajigs. it's still got all the sentimental heartrending lyrics, bitter-sweet harmonies, and tear-jerking melodies you've come to except from the torch song. star-crossed lovers, eat your ever-lovin' hearts out.

stardate 000000003: supermassive black hole. . .

CAUTION:               DANGER:

Hard Hat Area         High Voltage

cold and industrial, this gas-guzzling blues-rock engine runs on shitloads of rocket fuel. the distorted guitar torque propels its piston-driven heart and pumps out alto-vocal coolant by the gallon. the hydraulic pounding of the steam-hammer kick-drum, the sharp pop of the pneumatic boltgun snare, the sizzle of electricity, the grind of metal-on-metal...these are the sounds of the killing floor or, better yet, the cruel inner workings of some beautiful and unholy resurrection machine.

stardate 000000004: map of the problematique. . .

some people would describe muse's style as futuristic and they'd be half right. their style's futuristic to be certain, but what kind of future is it exactly? anwser: a retro-dystopian future. it sounds like orwell's 1984 or kubrick's 2001. what william s. gibson would call the Raygun Gothic. a dystopian soundscape of spaced-out guitar effects, horrorshow synthesizers, and, in the background, a cybernetic chorus chanting sacred hymns in lines of binary code.

set phasers to DEATOMIZE.

stardate 000000005: soldier's poem . . .

if this song was a person, it'd be the quiet type. a sleepy-headed 6/8 tempo, like a lullaby. spare instrumentation at first that then blossoms in a fiery-petaled bloom of fioritura vocal harmonies. here muse calls upon the crooning ghost of freddie mercury in a spectral musical séance and bring back to life the long-extinct barbershop quartet in order to genetically engineer this simple song into a sweet ambrosian rhapsody.

stardate 000000006: invincible . . .

not your typical power ballad,

this is a nuclear-power ballad.

this is the ballad of the future...today!

it's got an anthemic quality thanks to the textural guitar lines galore and the pipe-organ backdrop, not to mention these uplifting bubble-gum lyrics with a vocal delivery so over-the-top it almost makes me wanna puke. the anthem turns downright militant with the march-beat snare rolls. the sound, it's all very familiar. it's all very U2. and then comes the dark shift...

a brief interlude, like a solar eclipse,

the fuzzed bass guitar casting a long aeolian shadow

over the song's sunny demeanor until it...

ERUPTS!

in an orgiastic flourish of pitch-shifted fret-tapping guitar,

like the sun reemerging from behind the moon,

splattering the sky with a flaming triple-sec colored dawn,

bathing everything in its DigiTechnicolored ionian magnificence. 

stardate 000000007: assassin . . .

this drop-d headbanger-kebab certainly lives up to its name. dark and angry, like a rampaging member of the bloodthirsty hashashin sprinting through the harsh desert, stiletto glinting in the cruel arabian sunlight. this song shows no mercy. it takes no prisoners.

stardate 000000008: exo-politics . . .

nothin fancy here, just a straight-forward full-speed-ahead hyperdrive-engaged balls-to-the-wall riff-driven badass-motherfucker of a rock n roll romp. 'nuff said.

stardate 000000009: city of delusion . . .

now, they're bringin out the big guns, amigos. first, the acoustic strummings of a renegade guitar, then comes the polyrhythmic plunking of a guerilla bass, crafting a dark and violent interstellar tango, as the string section howls underneath it all, like the souls of the damned at the hands of the conquistador trumpet. this song brings about pure miltonic Pandemonium. its intensity waxes and wanes like the phases of the moon, from the hushed synth-bass breakdowns to the blinding intensity of the havoc-wreaking choruses.

stardate 000000010: hoodoo . . .

flamenco music...IN SPACE!

one moment, the runaway gypsy guitar's propelling you upward, like zorro gallivanting on his trusty black steed, until you reach escape velocity and breach the earth's atmosphere. then, the next moment, it leaves you floating aimlessly through space on slow-plucked whammied chords. this is followed by a crescendo of bone-crushing arpeggiated piano-rolls, like tidal waves crashing on some distant alien shore. then back to the hushed zero-g interstellar gyspy-guitar coasting. yes, the 180-degree shifts will give you motion sickness.  

stardate 000000011: knights of cydonia . . .

first,

a build-up

of slapbacked

surf guitar twang

climbing the dorian scale

building a pyramid of sound

tremoloing down into an ominous

logarithmic sequence of modulations

all done amidst a watery guitar-line buzzing

electric like the flight of a bumblebee soaring

over the Giza Necropolis as apocalyptic prophesies

sound from the trumpets of ancient astronauts heralding

the simmering breakdown section: a bleating robotic choir,

their vocoded voices in quicksilver falsetto bursting into heavy

metal riffage that spirals out of control until the prophecy is fulfilled.

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yes, muse got what the good Dr. Gonzo would call "a rising sound" á la jefferson airplane's "white rabbit." they're all about the overall shape of their music, all about contour, the gentle crescendo, the build-up, the breakdown, the climax and, of course, these guys are all about balance, all about symmetry. you can hear this within the individual songs themselves and, in a wider scope, the album in its entirety. clearly these guys are big-picture thinkers. they don't so much play music as they do sculpt it from a monumental wall of sound into a flawlessly-proportioned vitruvian-man-lookin' work of art.

jolly good show, ya limey grandstanding trekkie bastards!

cold pastoral:

jeff buckley's grace

chances are this is not one of those albums that's gonna jump out at you right away as being downright genius (even though it is). this is a soft-spoken album by a soft-spoken artist, not one of those la-di-da in-your-face albums by pretentious bands whose names i won't mention. no, buckley's debut is much more low-key and covert when it comes to it's awe-inspiring musical might. it's kind of like a rip-tide: on the surface, calm and serene, but powerful and deadly down below. a slow-burn, as they say.

i'm sure you've all heard the boiled-frog hypothesis before: y'know, how if you were to toss some poor frog into a pot of boiling water, it'd jump right out in a panic, whereas if you were to put said froggy in a pot of lukewarm water that you slowly heated up (being the sadistic bastard that you are), it'd float there care-free and happy as a clam 'til—VOILA—scrumptious frog's legs stew. yeah, this album's kinda like that. you may dismiss it as mediocre on the first listen, but believe me, this album grows on you. it slowly digs its hooks deep into you until, before you know it, what once seemed a lackluster album has slow-simmered your mind into a seething skullfull of piping-hot brain stew. 

in order to better put this album into words, i've called on my trusty sidekick john keats to help fill in some of the gaps in my writing. now what, might you ask, does a grunge-era alt-rocker have in common with a 18th-century british poet? in short, a lot. i can't stop myself from drawing parallels between buckley's music and keats' poetry (whose excerpts have been italicized and cited). maybe i'm crazy, maybe not. see for yourself:

1) MOJO PIN:

the psychedelic fade-in to velvet-soft verses of plush sus-chords feels like the onset of some powerful narcotic...

        first, The Rush: arpeggio-waves of euphoria that leave you warm and fuzzy all over. leave you content to be stuck in this drug-addled stupor, as the chorus drags you further and further down until your balls-deep in karmic opioid-induced bliss—and then, before you finally nod-off into sweet full-blown oblivion, it hits you...

                  The Bridge:

a shot of pure guitar-adrenaline straight to the heart,

flamenco flurries of minor-key chords, loud and mean, screaming ascension,

snare-drum heartbeat racing, jolting you out of the velvet fog

into a brief moment of fortissimo clarity,

but not for long...

        then, The Relapse: as you're hurled back into the soothing amniotic oceans of the verse. the high now much stronger than before. the drumkit a bit more frantic, a bit more syncopated, vocals nearly desperate. this shit's starting to really kick into high-gear until...

                  The Overdose: as you drown in the warm distortion of the climactic third chorus and finally, after one final adrenaline shot, you're right back where you started; the fade-in (now fading-out), leaving you watery-eyed and semi-conscious, blood itching as you ache for another hit.

2) GRACE:

brisk 6/8 cross-picking guitar...

T               M
          U               B            I
                                   L            N
                                                         G

f          u          r          t          h          e          r

          D

               O

                    W

                         N

                                        the

                                   RABBIT

                                       hole.

3) LAST GOODBYE:

a pretty little love-song in disguise. a sheep in wolves' clothing. don't let the bottleneck-blues-guitar intro fool ya. those jingle-jangling chandelier-chords and sultry lovelorn vocals of the verses scream POP-SONG. and don't let that heavy syncopated bassline fool you either, as dark and ominous as it may sound. listen closer and you'll hear the violin beneath it all, singing sad but sweet, like a spurned lover. so sentimental it's on the brink of melodrama.

4) LILAC WINE:

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

                                                              (Ode on Melancholy)

here is buckley doing what buckley does best: making me feel feelings. smooth and robust, this one goes down easy, like a fine wine should. it's simple: just mix two parts love-ballad, one part drinking-song, pour over ice-cold vocals, add a slice of jazz-guitar harmonies then serve.

(shaken not shtirred)

5) SO REAL:

the languid blues-guitar dozes off into a deep lydian sleep

the drums shape-shift time in slow circadian rhythms,

beats falling like grains of sand in an hourglass

and amidst a slowly sleepwalking bassline,

sings a soprano voice thru downy verses

and then comes The Nightmare:

an ugly de-tuned guitar

shrieks, the notes

slowly melting

in midair

slowly pulling

you under 'til you wake

in a cold sweat, head spinning

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

                                                        (Ode to a Nightingale)

6) HALLELUJAH:

being the godless heathen that i am, this song is as close as i'll ever come to having a full-on spiritual awakening and i'm ok with that. to simply call it a cover would be a gross understatement of this song's divine majesty. this ain't no cover, this is a total reimagining of an old leonard cohen classic. a reawakening, if you will. this is a tune that has left behind its wicked sinful ways. a tune that's been born-again in a holy blaze of baptismal-fire. ascetic like a motherfucker with none of the decadent '80s-music trappings of the original: no choir, no cheesy synth-keyboards, no rigid drumbeats. none of that. just a man and his guitar. pure and simple.

it starts with a good god-fearing guitar tone that's bright and clean and pure as the driven snow. the nickel-wound strings strike slow solemn chord-chimes, like church bells resounding across the vaulted ceilings of some great medieval chapel. the lyrics both sacred and sexually-charged. they harken back to the pagan days when such a distinction between the two didn't exist. not to mention his hallowed voice, like the holy ghost. it verges on the supernatural. so much so you can almost see...

...his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death

                                                                          (The Eve of St. Agnes)

7) LOVER, YOU SHOULD'VE COME OVER

the nasally bellows of the harmonium, like the labored pumping of a lovesick heart. so bitter-sweet it hurts. this is what it means to be sadder but wiser. his voice, desperate, pining for a long-lost lover. hopeful, yes, but on the verge of utter hopelessness. this is a man so deep in denial he's caked head-to-toe in egyptian mud.

tragically humorous or humorously tragic, i can't decide. sacred or profane, hopeful or hopeless. it's so paradoxical it's downright ZEN. if a tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it actually makes a sound, this is the sound it'd make. this song is the sound of one-handed clapping. sounds like being on the verge of some great epiphany. i can't do it justice in words, so i'll leave it to keats:

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heard

Made purple riot

                                                                              (The Eve of St. Agnes)

8) CORPUS CHRISTI CAROL

here is where buckley goes MEDIEVAL on some asses...or maybe it's early-renaissance...hard to say, really. what i do know is that the song's old—really old, like Olde old—and as you'd expect, it's got more of that solemn religious piety. here, Buckley showcases a piercing soprano vocal so sky-high and crystal-clear it'd put a 300-pound opera-singing broad to shame. the haunting echo on the vocals plus a shit-ton of reverb on the six-string makes it sound like your deep within some granite-lined sepulcher alone in the dark.

it sounds, at times, like a tender lullaby cooing sweet nothings into the tired ears of the chorus. 

then again, it sounds, at times, like a heart-wrenching threnody, weeping falsetto strains 

to the inconsolable ears of the verses.

9) ETERNAL LIFE:

ladies and gents, we've reached the BOILING POINT:

a colossal shit-storm of zeppelinic proportions...

an earthshaking slap-bassline so rabid, distorted, and ferocious,
it's practically foaming at the mouth...

the incessant pulse of the drums, like pounding coffin-nails...

and the distortion of the guitar, like bloody fingernails scratching from the inside...

this song has none of that quiet deathbed resignation outlook you've come to expect from buckley in tracks 6 and 8. it has none of that 'die-with-dignity' bullshit philosophy as the title might suggest. this is the sound of a man who won't go quietly into that good night. this is the sound of a man who's gonna go out with a bang, kicking and screaming in a knockdown-dragout fight to the death 'cuz he's not sure what's on the other side.

10) DREAM BROTHER:

a side-winding guitar riff with a cactus-like tone, beside a slow slithering bass, over tabla-ridden drum rhythms as formless as the shifting sands of the sahara. and above it all, a parched voice, thin and dry, like shed snakeskin...feels like i'm wandering lost in the desert.

then, once i've reached the moment where i think i couldn't possibly take any more of the dry oven-heat, the relentless midday sun, the endless dunes upon dunes of baked bronze sands, i see it. off in the distance. a lush green oasis:

a glass harmonica wall of sound, watery and crystal-clear,

its ghostly tones stacked sky-high and built up until it reaches critical mass

in a massive Lygetti clusterfuck-chord, humming electric

like a choir of a thousand judgement-day angels

but alas, the oasis is only a mirage. just the half-baked fantasy...

...Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

                                                         (Ode to Psyche)

*               *               *

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter, keats famously penned. 
BULLSHIT, i say. keats clearly never heard the likes of jeff buckley!