White Zombie lived Charles Beaumont’s quote about showbiz.
“…like climbing to the top of a mountain of manure to pluck one perfect rose– only to discover that you’ve lost your sense of smell.”
They slaved for a decade to the obdurate disregard of the record business. Too art school for CBGB’s and too tasteless for East Village, they floated between punk rock, psychedelic noise rock, and heavy metal, depending on which guitarist was in or out. They were always broke, sometimes homeless, and occasionally starving. Their singer changed his name three times. It sounds like the kind of arduous vision-quest where if you knew what was ahead you’d never take the first step.
In 1992 they got their break and became one of the defining metal acts of the decade. It was too late. The band was already kind of over. Behind the scenes they’d burned out, couldn’t get along anymore, and the bassist and singer had broken up. Shortly after White Zombie exploded in a good way they exploded again, this time in a bad way. Instead of reaping the rewards of their toil, it all just ended. Their career as a headline metal act seems compressed and short: a band that came from nowhere only to vanished into the deep abysm of history. Most fans did not know about the ten-year iceberg beneath the water, but that’s the part of the iceberg that wrecks the ship.
For years, White Zombie’s early releases were obscure rarities. (Hidden on purpose, one might suspect…) As a teenaged fan reading the band’s Wikipedia, I was struck by the contrast between the band’s first release (Gods on Voodoo Moon—no label, self-produced, sold 100 copies) and their last (Astro-Creep 2000—major label, produced by Terry Date, certified 2x Platinum). It’s hard to imagine Metallica’s first album (for example) languishing in such neglect. Once White Zombie began filling arenas, why did nobody put these early albums back into print? For that matter, what did they even sound like?
To answer the second question: “it depends but mostly like the sonic equivalent being projectile-vomited face-first into a slaughterhouse.”
To answer the first: “because Rob Zombie did not allow it”.
Rob is a complicated guy. I have said as much before. A blunt but honest read is that he’s both the party most responsible for the band’s breakup and the primary legal obstacle to its older work being available. I’d psychoanalyze him as someone who loves other peoples’ pasts (his art is colored by the aesthetic seepage of Russ Meyer and Sam Peckinpah and Universal horror films and…) but who feels mainly disregard, alienation, or hatred for his own past. He’s a visual artist in the most Baudrillardian sense, a manipulator of images, and he seems to dislike the idea of a permanent record that fundamentally cannot be changed.
Even as a kid, I noticed that Rob (when interviewed) was reluctant to remember or reminisce—he’d give short non-answers, always railroading the conversation back onto his current project. (Guaranteed interview-killer question: “will you bring White Zombie back?”). He was impervious to nostalgia. A typical Rob Zombie setlist used to be “80% or so of his last album, plus some token past hits here and there” (lately he’s broadened out a bit). And when he parts ways with a musician, he generally does so permanently (there are two major—and again, recent—exceptions). To him, the past is very much a foreign country, and he’s in no hurry to renew his visa. I recall an impromptu fan Q&A session held on his MySpace page. The first question was something like “why won’t you play any old White Zombie songs live”? He replied with something like “because nobody knows them and I’ve forgotten them and there’s no point so thank you” and then basically never spoke to anyone on Myspace again. Fair enough. He moves on. Maybe we should too.
But in 2008, the de-facto omerta against White Zombie’s early years ended. Rob (likely motivated by a crazed WZ fan holding a gun to his head) finally surrendered and re-released the WZ back catalogue as a five-disc box set called Let Sleeping Corpses Lie. The title said it all—the only box he thought White Zombie belonged in was a coffin. It was a disappointing, poorly-packaged release with no liner notes and no input from band members other than Rob, and various ex-Zombies lined up to publicly barrack it. … https://blabbermouth.net/news/former-white-zombie-guitarist-talks-band-s-split-let-sleeping-corpses-lie-box-set
Crawdaddy!: I understand you had no input in “Let Sleeping Corpses Lie”, the WHITE ZOMBIE box set, at all?
Yuenger: Not at all.
Crawdaddy!: How did you find out it was happening?
Yuenger: They sent me and [former bassist] Sean [Yseult] mockups, like, two days before the release date. There was such little thought put into it. None of the photos were credited — we were like, “Uh, you know you have to credit photos or people can sue you?” And they were like, “Oh.” There were no liner notes, which are essential for something like that. I mean, the band had such an interesting story, how could you not have liner notes? I hear about it all the time from fans. They’re happy that the super rare early records are on there, that’s cool for them to hear, but the packaging sucks. Sean’s got all kinds cool shit — photos and flyers and stuff that they could have put in there.
[…] Crawdaddy!: I’m detecting an acceptance in your tone. Are there no hard feelings on your end?
Yuenger: Oh, sure there are. [Uncomfortable laughter]
Jay Yuenger, via Crawdaddy
and
Rock N Roll Experience: I thought it was lame that you & J. had no involvement with the White Zombie box set.
Sean: Yeah, I sent them some VHS’s & J. and I were both getting stuff together and next thing you know we were sent some proofs of, “here it is, it’s done!” & there was all kinds of mistakes on it, lack of credit to photographers and friends and band members and I was trying to make corrections and they were like, “Oh, it’s already being printed.” (laughs) It was a little bit of a fuck you to me & J. which was kinda weird since we were 2/3rd’s of the band but anyways…(laughs)
Sean Yseult, Via Rock-N-Roll Experience
Rob Zombie hates the past. When he’s allowed to define it, he does so in the most shoddy, careless, self-serving way possible.
In 2010, Sean Yseult published I’m in the Band, a tour diary and photobook of her years with White Zombie. Then in 2016 Numero Group released It Came from N.Y.C, a much better boxed set (it contains liner notes, audio remastered by Jay Yuenger, and even a pile of unreleased tracks from the Tim Jeffs era!) which may be as close to definitive as we ever live to see.
Or hear, if you’re a weirdo who opens a $150 boxed sets to listen to the music. Early White Zombie releases are incredibly different to their later incarnation as industrial metal titans: I cannot stress this enough. This is music by the sewer, of the sewer, for the sewer.
Its most listenable moments are scruffy unproduced proto-Pixies punk rock. Its most challenging are the ear-splitting avulsions and contortions of Soul-Crusher—storms of Michael Gira-esque noise that I cannot listen to for more than a few seconds with the volume dial past three. It’s a corrosive, hateful sound but a compelling one, mucus-slick and burning in the ear. It reminds me of a time I was really sick, and I vomited some stomach acid up my nose.
These records were recorded with some expense spared. You can very much hear (spiritually, if not literally) Rob’s roommates pounding on the wall, yelling “shut that racket off!” You might want to join them. I can easily believe this band did not have record labels banging on their door waving checks. I can also easily believe they did not have a door to bang on. This confused and confusing thing, nominally a band if not always practically, was simply not a thing that could be marketed or sold. This site, with early press, captures the confusion they inspired. Journalist after journalist simply doesn’t “get” the band at all, and are forced onto dreaded “quoting the band’s titles/lyrics” territory.
JUST what is a “slug motion dinosaur”? Have you ever had a “cannibal collision American girl suckin’ your gut”? Do you find the phrase “some kind of portable radio melted into her screaming legs” horrifying or just a bit of a ribtickler?….Christ what a lyric sheet!
– Billy Lucas
FROM the Pussy Galore strain of piss-off wrought iron thrash and trash, White Zombie have all the right titles–“Ratmouth”, “Diamond Ass”, etc., the right name and…..well, “Soul Crusher” is just right.
– Greg Fasolino
When you’ve reduced scumcore nowave countercultural journalists (used to extracting comprehensible prose from Thurston Moore, Glenn Branca, and Lydia Lunch) to saying “these weirdos and their song titles!” it’s possible we’re looking at a rough sell.
White Zombie had identity issues from the start. They changed genres basically every time they changed guitarists, and they did this a lot. Paul “Ena” Kostabi in ’85. Tim Jeffs in ’86. Tom “5” Guay in ’87. John Ricci in ’88. Jay Noel Yuenger in ’89. All of these men had different styles, different abilities, and different limitations.
The style shift from 1985’s Gods of Voodoo Moon (“badly-produced but tuneful punk rock with wailing guitar solos”) to Pig Heaven/Slaughter the Grey (“5-7 minute long long psychedelic rock noodle-fests”) is noticeable. Then Tom Guay joins, leading to the sky-dissolving noise-acid of 1987’s Psycho-Head Blowout and Soul-Crusher. The progression (or disintegration) of the band’s music is fascinating, but there’s not much here for me. “Gun Crazy” has a crazy mathcore riff that sounds like Dillinger Escape Plan or whatever and “Ratmouth” kind of has a chorus. Otherwise, all these songs run together and the track lengths feel like suggestions. 1989’s Let Them Die Slowly is a thrash metal album, if a bit noisy and slow. It has a weird phased-out quality and an empty lifeless mix. “Disaster Blaster” is the closest to a WZ deep cut we get here. You can see the chorus riff re-appear (faintly) in later songs like “Black Sunshine” and “Blur the Technicolor.” It’s most notable for where it’s pointing: toward metal, toward comprehensibility.
Running through a decade-long tumble of chaos and flux are two steel supports: Sean Yseult’s bass (she varies in how loudly she’s mixed but her playing is always aggressive and forceful) and Rob Zombie’s psychedelic day-glo horror lyrics and art. Rob’s vocals are not on the list. His voice and vocal approach changes and matures with time. In the early days, he is as unrecognizable as the rest of the band—a harsh nasal presence who usually doesn’t gel with the music at all. The guitar work of Tom Five and John Ricci is wildly expressionistic, but Rob is consistently unable to find his way in. He sounds like a karaoke singer howling over a song he doesn’t quite know (which may well be the truth). He has a weird tic where he delivers lines as anapests, stressing and cutting short final syllables. Howling out sound like a windsock, then stomping it flat. You hear this in, eg, “Power Hungry”:
“Fu-TURE! a-LIVE! ro-BOT! ciTY!”
According to Sean Yseult, his scatted-and-spat-out vocal rhythms were largely made up by him at the mic during recording sessions (which tended to be one-take affairs). Only later would he discovers his thunderous from-the-chest roar—along with producers who have heard of multitracking to thicken out a singer.
Let Them Die Slowly is a big leap forward in this regard, even if it’s onto a fad (thrash metal) that was already starting to die. 80s Metallica proves an overshadowing influence—”Demonspeed” is kinda just “Jump in the Fire” mixed with “No Remorse”, and most of the others are equally obvious in their derivation. But Rob’s vocals are now very close to his modern style.
In 1989, Jay Yuenger joins, and the band releases its final EP (God of Thunder). They are nearly in their final form here. Neither “Love Razor” and “Disaster Blaster II” are fantastic songs, but they’re clearly White Zombie songs. The only element still missing is the electronic samples (inspired by the hip hop, a’la Public Enemy, which was then everywhere in the Five Boroughs).
Yuenger is pretty clearly “the” White Zombie guitarist. The massive groove-thrash riffs underpinning Astro-Creep 2000 are phenomenal, and are captured in one of the heaviest guitar tones ever on a record. But the work of his predecessors is strange and interesting, and I had overlooked their influence until now. You’d wonder if some of Yuenger’s “edgier” riffs, like the one just before the verse of “Electric Head pt.2” (Is it F#sus2/4? F#add9? Whatever…) were always just an attempt to recreate Tom Guay’s wild noise-rock jangle.
It Came From N.Y.C. is fascinating as a record of where a band comes from. Do I like it, though? Well, it doesn’t want to be likeable, so I suppose it would have failed if I had.
No, I don’t want to hear any of these songs again, but I understand the band a bit better from hearing them. This is a group striking a nihilistic “fuck everything” pose from the gutters of Manhattan, only to decide they wanted some of that everything, so they conformed just a little bit. It suited them. They became my favorite band for years and years—hooky, ingenious, clever, and supremely heavy. I do not regret for a moment that we lost another Sonic Youth or the next Metal Machine Music, because we got La Sexorcisto: Devil Music Volume One and Astro-Creep 2000 in trade (plus Rob’s solo music). Many experimental artists would be wise to follow the advice of “sell out as fast as possible”. Experimental art sucks, frankly.
This boxed set seems like it will be the end of White Zombie. The final stopping point. As Beavis and Butthead might comment “They were cool, and broke up before they stopped being cool.” What more can you hope for? Mourn not a dead zombie. That’s a common state for them to be in (perhaps even a fundamental one). Rather, rejoice and marvel at a zombie that was once alive…even if it was just for a fleeting moment, twenty years ago in the Lower East Side.
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A friend, discussing Disney’s 1949 film The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad, had this to say about one Walter Elias Disney.
Disney’s historical impact is complicated. On the one hand Walt Disney was a bad man in one thousand ways (although I think as the face of media’s Evil Empire he gets strange flack for crimes he’s not guilty of. Family Guy deserves a huge chunk of blame here) who left the entertainment industry and probably the entire world a worse place than he found it. On the other hand without him we never really would’ve had cartoons in the way that we have them now. Sorry but no Looney Tunes. Anime would be something unrecognizable. No Rocky and Bullwinkle. No Simpsons. I know this seems melodramatic but his impact on animation was meteoric. Tex Avery would still have been born and would probably have made some masterpieces but he got his start with Disney and sharpened his sensibility against The Disney Tone. I think without Disney, theatrical cartoons would’ve crested with the Fleischers in the early 30s and gradually died out after the Hays Code. We’d still be making cartoons but you’re kidding yourself if you think Ub “Flip The Frog” Iwerks was sparking culture in the same way. I’m not sure which reality I’d prefer -the one with or without Walt Disney- and luckily I don’t get to choose. You don’t want a guy like me making those calls.
When pressed for details about why Disney was bad, he cited the usual stuff—busting up strikes, and naming names to the HUAC, and that sort of thing.
“Walt Disney was bad” is a valid perspective. My perspective is that Disney was not a bad man, just a flawed one with a demon on his shoulders that he probably couldn’t see. A fear of losing control of his art ran through all he did, and his paranoia manifested in ugly ways. Ways that he likely regretted in his better moments.
He seems like a fictional character, so the temptation is to let your brain lazily flood-fill an existing fictional character on top of what you don’t know. He’s Willy Wonka, Mr Burns, Michael Jackson (good), Michael Jackson (pejorative), the Pointy-Haired Boss…picketh your poison.
My (sympathetic) reading comes from Michael Barrier’s excellent biography The Animated Man: A Life of Walt Disney (University of California Press, 2007). It gave me a fuller picture of Disney as a man. Enough that many puzzle pieces fall into place: not just about Walt, but about the culture he created (and we now live in, for better or for worse).
His early working life was the same damned thing happening on repeat. He’d build something from scratch (a company, a partnership, a creative franchise), and then have it stolen or destroyed senselessly in seemingly a moment. Sometimes he was wrecked upon the vicissitudes of luck. Other times he was outmaneuvered by flinty businesspeople like Pat Powers and Charles Mintz. He usually had very little warning before the ground fell out from under him. After a distribution deal with Universal fell through in 1928, he realized he’d lost the rights to his studio’s benchmark character—Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. He was forced to create a new one—Mickey Mouse—on the train home from New York.
This sort of “You made this? I made this” deal was the lot in life of many 1920s and 1930s cartoonists. See, for example, Otto Messmer losing Felix the Cat—a character who he is extremely likely the creator of—to Pat Sullivan. Then (surely now) animators treated their work with a light touch. Whatever their role in creating a famous character, it was seldom “theirs” in a legal sense, and had to be disposable. But with the success of Snow White, Disney thought he’d escaped that trap. He’d built something that would last.
In the 1940s, problems massed against the studio. The war destroyed the European market for cartoons. Costs of producing films continued to rise as techniques became more elaborate and its workforce expanded—which also meant management (and Walt) became separate from the worker bees, creating a stratified business where the various “layers” (ink and paint, storyboard, directing, management) drifted apart and had little idea of what was happening above them or under them. In this situation, a business can end up at war with itself. (Read Zvi’s “Moral Mazes”).
With the studio in millions of dollars of debt, and contemplating drastic layoffs to meet bank loans, Disney’s paranoia fell on the rank and file. He heard stories of workers unionizing (on company time), and saw it as the next verse in the same old song and dance. Dark powers were assembling to destroy him, but now the stakes weren’t “a business partner”, or “a handful of animators”, or “a character”, but “a company with 1200 employees that was making the most technically elaborate works of animation ever made”. He probably thought “Not today, Satan.” He’d finally found a hill he was ready to die on.
(And we should not be too naive about the labor movement. A lot of people involved were literal criminals and thugs, like Willie Bioff, enforcer for the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees. )
I also learned more about Disney’s father: a cold and difficult man who demanded unquestioning obedience from his children. If Walt or his brother were tardy in obeying some instruction, they’d get “whupped” with whatever Elias Disney had to hand: a hammer, or the flat of a saw. From the age of nine, Walt was put to work on a newspaper route in Kansas City by his father (who refused to pay him). Walt’s own account of his childhood is so woeful it verges on comedy, like Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen sketch.
“We had a newspaper route . . . delivering papers in a residence area every morning and evening of the year, rain, shine, or snow. We got up at 4:30 a.m., worked until the school bell rang and did the same thing again from four o’clock in the afternoon until supper time. Often I dozed at my desk, and my report card told the story.” Forty years afterward, he still dreamed that he had missed customers on his route. “I remember those icy cold days of crawling up these icy steps” to put the newspaper inside a storm door, he said in 1956. Elias insisted that the papers not be thrown on porches or in yards, but carried to the front door. “I was so darn cold I’d slip, and I could cry, so I cried.”
Ya tell that to kids now and they won’t believe you.
It stood out to me that Elias (like many farmers) was a union man—a member of the American Society of Equity, and firmly under the sway of Eugene V. Debs. Walt learned to draw by copying comics from Appeal to Reason, a socialist magazine that his father subscribed to. Maybe Walt had lingering bad associations about the kind of man who joins a union because of the kind of man his dad was. It’s possible. So are many other things.
So that’s the positive gloss on Disney’s activities: a justly-paranoid man trying to protect his art. I am not saying this was the truth, or that he reacted correctly.
But what was Disney’s “art”? And how much of it was “his”?
Walt’s position in media is complicated. So is his position in my head. He is a fundamentally a confusing individual, and Michael Barrier’s biography doesn’t shed much light on it. I kept thinking of nostalgebraeist’s the void—a character that just doesn’t make sense or have internal coherency yet still claims that it exists. Disney feels like that too.
Was he charming and avuncular, or a quiet introvert? Was he a Pollyannaish idealist, or a flinty realist? Did his workers love him, or did they not? It seems you can make any interpretation of Disney work by selecting some facts and ignoring others. And to be sure, an entire life offers ample opportunities for apparent contradictions to emerge.
One striking irony is that Disney was a perfectionist who himself was not capable of perfection. Films like Bambi have some of the best technical animaton ever attempted, and they were done without computers or digital ink and paint or anything like that.
But Disney himself was an animator of utmost mediocrity. His own work can be seen in Alice’s Day at Sea. It’s creative in its blending of live action, stop motion, and 2D animation, but the animation is shoddy even for 1924. (To be fair to Walt, these were cranked out at Stakhanovite pace for pitiful sums of money, and I’m sure he didn’t regard this as fine work. That said, where is his fine work?)
By the 1930s, Disney realized that he was better stepping away from the coalface of the animation industry. His skills had long been eclipsed by others. He became a marshaller of the creative talents of others. (He said of himself: “I’m the little honeybee who goes flying around sprinkling pollen here and there to keep everything going.”)
Was he a good overseer of others’ work? I think so. To an extent. Certainly, most of the Disney artists (even the great ones) who left the company accomplished little of note without him. They had their weaknesses and limitations, too. Overall, Disney had excellent taste for where the industry was going, and where it could conceivably go. He saw possibilities. He felt that animation had to grow larger and larger, expanding its vocabulary, assimilating other forms of media. I think Fantasia, for example, is wonderful.
But at the same time, his instincts clearly failed him many times. Isn’t there obviously a fair amount of bad stuff in classic Disney films? Even the ones that are rightly regarded as classics?
They’re very kitsch. John Kricfalusi had a cruel but funny dig about the average Disney screenplay: it contains 10 minutes of plot and 60 minutes of flowers singing and birds wiping dishes with their butts. Anyone who, like Ralph Bakshi, thinks animation has to mean something ([the idea of] “grown men sitting in cubicles drawing butterflies floating over a field of flowers, while American planes are dropping bombs in Vietnam and kids are marching in the streets, is ludicrous”) will have capital P Problems and a capital D Drama with Disney. Modern aesthetes demand art that comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comfortable. Disney’s films seem to comfort the comfortable and disturb the disturbed.
Or perhaps you agree with CS Lewis, who felt that the mark of true maturity is that one is old enough to read fairytales again.
I’ll admit there’s a streak of broad sentimental schmaltz in Disney that I have to put myself in a weird or altered mood to sit through. I don’t even hate it. I just don’t understand it. It makes no sense to me. Whatever effect Walt is trying to achieve in the singing birds of Snow White (say) doesn’t really translate to me. I’d go further, and say that certain scenes—like the idealized lissome youths presented in Fantasia’s “The Pastoral Symphony”—are outright uncomfortable to watch and unpleasant in their connotations.
The strong parts of Disney films are always the dramatic, nasty stuff. Which says something about me, I’m sure. Probably that I’m smart and sophisticated, unlike you rubes. Consider Chernobog’s hands. Those awful, flame-wreathed, nigrified hands of soot. Have you ever seen such hands? Do his hands wait for you in your dreams? They do mine. Those hands.
So I don’t understand Disney. Not in the sense that Barrier failed in his duty to accurately portray a man—I think my confusion is the portrait. Disney was a man of mirrors. Gaze too hard and you tumble into a labyrinth of references and cliches and finally you stare back at yourself.
That intensity, never visible to viewers of Disney’s television show, showed itself in his behavior when he was in the park. “He would never walk past a piece of litter,” said Michael Broggie, a ride operator in the early 1960s. “He would reach down and grab it, and everyone was expected to do that.”
I do that too! When I see garbage, I pick it up. Assuming it’s not disgusting and putrid.
There’s also some evidence in Barrier’s book that Disney presented a facade to the world. He made himself look stupid. That’s sinister to me. Men who try to look smarter than they really are a dime a dozen and harmless. Men who try to look stupider than they really are can be quite dangerous. It’s better for a mountain to become a molehill than a molehill a mountain.
While the public thinks of Disney as playing with trains and exchanging pleasantries with juvenile alumni of the now-defunct Mickey Mouse Club, he actually is one of the most widely read, most widely traveled, most articulate men in Hollywood. I became acutely aware of this when I spoke with him recently at lunch in the private dining room of his… studio. While he devoured a dietetic meal of lean hamburger and sliced tomatoes he spouted rustic witticisms with the aplomb of a modern-day Bob Burns. But every once in a while his eyes would narrow, the rural twang would disappear from his voice and he’d discuss financial projections for 1962, the modern art of Picasso and Diego Rivera, and Freudian psychiatry. In a few moments, however, he’d catch himself ” and revert to homespun stories.
While we’re contemplating morbidity (we weren’t, but just pretend)…what does it mean for Disney to die?
A common Disney trope is the death of a parent used as a symbol for maturity. Bambi’s mother is the ur-case. But the parent, of course, is not truly dead. Something of them remains in the child who must continue on without them, before dying in turn. Our bodies are pathways for ancient seething forces too great—and terrible—for bodies to contain.
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The final album by Michael “Meat Loaf” Aday and Jim “Jim Steinman” Steinman arrives bedecked in heraldry. It knows it has to matter. It pulls out all the stops. It brings back Ellen Foley and Karla DeVito. There’s “All Songs by Jim Steinman” glaring off the cover with point-making intensity, with “Desmond Child was taken out back and shot” in small print (wait, it’s not on yours? It’s on mine. Mostly because I added it in Sharpie.). Every work of art might turn out to be your last. Both men clearly sensed—maybe knew—that this was the end.
Even if you agree with producer Todd Rundgren’s view of Bat Out of Hell (Interview Q: “Do you ever put on the record and listen to it?” Todd: “Not much.”), it’s impossible to see the Julie Bell cover art—two figures vs the apocalypse; a giant with his slumped shoulders Atlas-huge and Atlas-weary, and a scrawny brave lion with his hair blowing behind him—without feeling a sting of sadness. What an incredible forty-year partnership these men shared.
And so it is with regret that I pronounce the Braver Than We Are a bin fire. If you love it, you’ll have to love it for both of us.
I knew he was sick. I still wasn’t prepared for how bad Meat Loaf sounds on this record. On Dead Ringer his voice was only worn-out and haggard, here he sounds like Mr Burns. Hearing him mutter and cough and bark through songs is demoralizing experience, turning his glorious last stand into a glorious last sit (amusing witticisms like that are the reason I am known as a “card” at parties), and sucking the panache from lyrics because you can hardly understand what he’s saying.
I am not exaggerating. This is awful. There’s a moment in “Souvenirs” (after “…cold cold night”) that’s just “Guhh-buhhh-gahhh” lip-flap that I couldn’t in a million years decipher without a lyrics sheet, plus a conspicuous cut in the audio where two salvage-job vocal tracks were spliced together. “Only When I Feel” has some of the most horrendous singing I have ever heard on a record (“End-less…payyyyyeen!”). I am just in awe of the fact that *this* was the best recording they could get out of Meat Loaf. *This.*
It doesn’t help that Foley and DeVito still sound fantastic and whenever there’s a duet they just flash-burn him to a skeleton like the Terminator 2 kid clutching the chainlink fence. On “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” Foley was a stronger presence than Meat, but that was a deliberate choice and made sense in a battle-of-the-sexes story where she had the upper hand. On “Going All The Way Is Just The Start” she steals the show from Meat in a way that isn’t planned. She’s singing against a decrepit singer whose vocal range is so limited it’s more like a vocal melee. Of course, it’s not hard to do that when you’re mixed twice as loud. It’s not every day you hear a record where the the backing vocalists are louder than the singer.
Jim Steinman described Meat Loaf’s vocals as “heroic”, which is a courteous way of saying “he’s trying as hard as he can”. But that brings me to a question that I assume I won’t like the answer to: what did Steinman do here, exactly?
Braver *doesn’t sound like a Steinman record*. The bombastic Phil Spector 2.0 loudness and opulence (the wall of sound gilded and plated in titanium) is absent, backup vocals aren’t layered the way Steinman would do it, and so on. Then you see the credits, where Steinman is credited as a “Creative consultant” and think “oh, right”.
Quoting a Jim Steinman message board post from “steven_stuart” (who seems to know what’s up).
It’s basically a Paul Crook production. These days it’s difficult for Jim to actually produce in a studio but he can still produce when he sends Rink [sound engineer Steven Rinkoff – ed] to the studio as his representative. But a while ago Jim said that Rink hasn’t been invited to get involved. It’s Paul Crooks show but Meat will keep mentioning Jim because it’s good for publicity. I am sure that Jim is commenting through emails though. I think Meat said that. But I think this album is going to be more of a Dead Ringer than another BOOH. Although I like Meat a lot, so I hope it works. Especially since it could be his very last album. Meat is one of the great icons of rock. He deserves respect.
The thing Steinman certainly did not do is write tons of new music. Every song on Braver is at least several years old, and much of it is far older. The earliest tracks date back nearly half a century, and were the first he ever wrote.
Song by song:
– “Who Needs The Young” was written in 1968, when Jim was a student at Amherst College. It was composed for *The Dream Engine* (1969) and became “In der Gruft” (“In The Crypt”) for 1997’s *Tanz Der Vampire*.
– “Going All The Way Is Just The Start” is a medley of “Draußen ist Freiheit” (“Outside Is Freedom”) / “Stärker als wir sind” (“Stronger Than We Are”) / “Das Gebet” (“Say A Prayer”) from various versions of *Dance of the Vampires/*Tanz Der Vampire*. Basically, the lead chorus melody (which originally comes from “Sail On Haym” in Steinman’s 1970s play *Little Friend from Front Street*) is “Draußen ist Freiheit”, the “*sometimes it’s the flesh…*” bit is “Stärker als wir sind”, and *”say a prayer…”* is “Das Gebet”. I am a bit uncertain about which segments date from which run of the play.
– “Speaking in Tongues” was (supposedly) written for the 2007 musical adaptation of the 1990 John Waters film Cry-Baby. Information about this is scarce. Jim Steinman claims the bridge was rewritten for this release.
– “Loving You’s a Dirty Job (but Somebody’s Gotta Do It)” is from 1985, and is found on Bonnie Tyler’s 1986 album *Secret Dreams and Forbidden Fire.*
– “Souvenirs” is from the 1973-1974 anti-war play *Souvenirs* (later retitled to *More Than You Deserve*.)
– “Only When I Feel” is apparently part of a larger composition that also spawned “If It Ain’t Broke, Break It”. I believe it was written in 2003, along with Jim Steinman’s other contributions to Suri Krishnamma’s film *Wuthering Heights*.
– “More” is (as all TRUE goths know) from My Chemical Romance’s 2006 album *The Black Parade*
– “Godz” is “The Song of Defencelessness” from Steinman’s 1972 student production of Brecht’s The Good Woman of Szechuan. It was later used in an unfinished conceptual rework of *The Dream Engine* called *Neverland*. “Godz” shares a title with a composition from the 1972 musical *Rhinegold*. This is a musically unrelated piece. It was also performed as “Great Boleros of Fire” (amazing title, also) on the *Bat Out of Hell* tour.
– “Skull Of Your Country” is “Come in the Night” from *The Dream Engine*, where it exists in the libretto as “Invocation and Formation of the Tribe” (and it was also famously reused in Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart”).
– “Train of Love” is another The Dream Engine piece, apparently from an attempted 1970 production of the play.
So, that’s a lot of very old songs.
“What else is new?” you might ask. Steinman was always rock’s biggest recycler: his “use every part of the ox” approach extended to melodies, leitmotifs, themes, lyrics, and entire songs, which would appear over and over, in different formats and mediums, decade after decade. Steinman fans enjoy this little easter egg hunt, tracking the evolution of bits of music down through the years. It’s no different to how a painter would work—returning to the same themes over and over, emphasing and de-emphasing certain features, always seeking perfection, never quite getting there.
But the truth is, Steinman worked this way out of practical necessity. He wrote at the speed of molasses dripping down a tree trunk. There’s an extensive list of one-time clients—from Def Leppard to Bonnie Tyler—who ditched him just because they got sick of waiting for the Steinman lightning to strike. Even *Bat Out of Hell II* only has about four new songs.
And yes, it’s fun to notice the changing context of Steinman’s music. (A vivid example is “Who Needs the Young”, which was written by a young man and repurposed by an old one). Few rock composers allow you to see their work flux and mutate in front of the public eye like this. His music could feel almost like a continuous thing: ideas and motifs rippling and resurfacing like flotsam decades later. Anger at the smallmindedness of the Vietnam war turning into anger at smallmindedness in general, and a desire to create the biggest and loudest art possible. A desire to top Phil Spector and Richard Wagner at their own game. A desire to peel off the face of even the blandest, most milquetoast acts (Air Supply, Westlife) and find something braver than they were underneath. An admirable interest in performance as a unifying thread over human history, transcending stylistic trends. Few producers had his ambition, or his hit rate. Steinman was probably the best songwriter to have ever lived at writing in the style he did. When he came up with music, he typically hit it out of the park. But he simply was not productive enough for a mainstream music industry that demands 40-60 minutes of new material every few years, and had to bulk up his catalogue with old music. That’s reality.
It’s also reality that you will not find anything as excellent as “Bad For Good” and “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and “Ravishing” and “Faster Than the Speed of Night” and so on. Instead, you will find covers sung by a man with a very bad voice, plus various very old works from his college-era theater productions that don’t work on an alleged rock album. “Who Needs the Young” is not even a song, it’s a bizarre bit of tin-pan alley slapstick. Was it necessary for the world to hear this? On a Meat Loaf record? This doesn’t feel like Steinman recontextualizing his work for a new audience, new medium, or new interpreter. It feels like “Steinman raking through his trunk for old sheet music to mail to Paul Crook.”
I don’t believe Steinman changed anything much in these songs: most of the alterations would have been Paul Crook’s work. And they were clearly only “changed” to 1) be easier for Meat Loaf to sing and 2) smooth over stylistic deficiencies. For example, “Godz” now has its piano line replaced by a snarling guitar lead over a stroppy martial beat. That’s fun. I don’t hate it. But it’s clearly a producer trying to toughen up a ballad-heavy album with some token Jack Black “meh-tuhhlll” heaviness.
Even if we accept all this, I just don’t find these songs compelling examples of Jim’s craft. “Going All The Way Is Just The Start” is a good song that needed to be great. It occupies the slot that “I’d Do Anything for Love” did, and although energy does build at times, that goddamn crowdkiller of a chorus just hits the song like a shovel to the face, stopping its momentum dead. And I have never particularly loved “Loving You’s A Dirty Job”. In the late 80s Steinman started to lean into AOR blandness that didn’t suit him and overall hasn’t aged that well (“It’s All Coming Back to Me” is another egregious case). “More” has chugging guitar riffs thrown in. Great. It also loses the sparseness that made the original Sisters of Mercy song compelling.
Meat Loaf was always a parody (Todd Rundgren produced Bat out of Hell was because he was sick of hearing Bruce Springsteen on the radio and thought Jim Steinman was making fun of him) that became serious and heartfelt. Here, sadly, it collapses back to parody. Very, very sad to listen to.
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