An album where I fear to tread. Where I chop and change on whether it’s good or not.

I will say this: it feels like an accomplishment that I enjoy Helloween’s 2005 two-CD opus as much as I do, because the band seemingly did not want me to. It puts many barriers between the music and the listener. Such as the first thing you notice about it: its title.

Yes, this is Helloween’s *Bat out of Hell 3*. Helloween’s *Operation Mindcrime 2.* One of *those* albums. The band, a solid 18 years removed from their classic *Keeper* golden years (and missing three out of the five musicians that made those years possible), is trying to *title* their way to a comeback. Ew. Gross.

They swing hard at the idea, sparing no expense. On a technical level, this is the best Helloween album ever made. Witness the greatest production work of Charlie Bauerfeind’s career—everything loud and punchy and precise, treble stropped sharp, bass pelagic-deep, no trace of mud or fizz anywhere. There’s an attentiveness to sonic equality—to getting all the players and registers on the same page—that’s very unusual, but effectively realized. Even Grosskopf’s basslines bounce out at you so clearly that a sharp-eared bassist could probably tab out all thirteen tracks on their second listen. The album’s sonics are rich and lush and verge on overvoluptuous, but it thrills with its decadence. It feels like all the instruments had breast implants and buccal fat removal surgery, if that makes sense.

And the musicians themselves are on fire (not literally—as *Mythbusters* confirmed, power metal musicians are non-flammable). The first stable lineup Helloween had in years (Deris/Weikath/Gerstner/Grosskopf/Loble) simply clicks in a way *Rabbit Don’t Come Easy*‘s transitional roster couldn’t—in particular, new drummer Dani Loble proves to be an astonishing discovery, finding little grooves and fills everywhere in the music and pounding them into your skull. After Uli Kusch, he’s my second favorite drummer to ever play in this band (with apologies to Ingo, who was fast and aggressive for 1985 but a little simplistic by modern standards).

The album sounds like a million deutschmarks. No complaints there.

But…it’s simply not as good as *Keeper of the Seven Keys* part *I* and *II*. Yes, that’s true of most albums, and I don’t normally draw the comparison. But when you call your album *Keeper of the Seven Keys: The Legacy*, you’re shoving the barrel of that particular shotgun into your mouth and making duck noises.

Why do it? Why attempt the impossible—releasing a third (technically third and fourth, considering the 2nd disk) *Keeper* album, after nearly two decades? The 80s Helloween albums are truly special. And they relied on the soaring vocals of Michael Kiske and the brilliant songwriting of Kai Hansen, neither of whom are in the room.  The energy roused by a bunch of eighteen year olds from Hamburg cannot be summoned at will by forty year old men, only two of whom were in the band when it was active.

Worse, the songs are alarmingly spotty. Weak, knock-kneed, and confused. We get Michael Weikath’s foray into KISS style cock-rock with “Get it Up”, Andi Deris’s emptyheaded rewrite of “Dr Stein” entitled “Mrs God”, and uninteresting album filler like Weikath’s “Do You Know What You Are Fighting For” and Gerstner’s “The Invisible Man” that I have to actively fight not to skip over.

And don’t get me started on the “epic” that begins each disc. Both are so bloated you could swing a battleaxe through their skinniest part and not hit bone.

In general, the album is strongest as a glittery modern Nuclear Blast style power metal album, similar to the Finnish bands popular at the time (Sonata Arctica, Celesty, Dreamtale, and such). It is weakest when viewed as a continuation of classic Helloween. It is the latter comparison that the band forces you to make, over and over. Honestly, I dislike the whole idea of ever returning to Keeper. It’s not like this is some fascinating, rich fantasy concept. The whole thing’s at worst (or best?) meaningless, and at best (or worst?) a Stryper-lite fantasy parable about Christianity, as written by teenaged German boys who knew many words, and even a couple that were in English.

There are some bits and pieces of classic Helloween, but it’s done in a careless mocking way that smacks of persiflage. Sascha Gerstner’s “Silent Rain” has a chorus melody nearly identical to “Eagle Fly Free”, but the lyrics are about child molestation. Why do that? This is meant as a joke? “You know what sucks about ‘Eagle Fly Free’? No child molestation” is a thought I cannot imagine anyone ever having.

The songs hit double-digit numbers of minutes (for the first time since 1988), but don’t do much good with it. “King of a Thousand Years” is boring. “Occasion Avenue” opens with a recap of classic Helloween songs, cementing the feeling that Helloween is trying to bully their way unearned into classic stature (“Forget that stuff, here’s the real deal!”). And although the song has a catchy chorus and some interesting parts, it doesn’t earn its length. The goal seems to have been to write a very, very long song, like classic Helloween, filling the empty space with whatever will fill it.

Andi Deris is an overwhelming presence, writing easily 80% of the material. He gives us album highlights “Come Alive”, and “The Shade in the Shadow”—poppy modern power metal songs that don’t sound like anything on either real *Keeper* LP but are of high quality—and “Occasion Avenue” is worth venturing down, through you could skip over about 6 minutes in the middle. He’s also behind “Mrs God”, and the lifeless ballad “Light the Universe”. Michael Weikath is the most active point of contact with 80s Helloween (Grosskopf was also in the band then, but he didn’t write songs until the 90s), but he contributes a generic fast song “Born on Judgment Day” that could have been written by anyone. His other two songs (“Do You Know What You Are Fighting For” and “Get It Up”) are the worst things the album has to offer.

*Keeper of the Seven Keys: The Legacy* direly wants to be more than it is. It’s trying to bully its way into classic status, in a way that’s undignified. Like trying to offer St Peter a blowjob to get into heaven. Does that work? Has anyone tried it? The Bible says the sheep will be separated from the goats. Does that include throat goats?

Imagine if David Gilmour reformed “Pink Floyd” with a mixture of new musicians and AI and released *The Even Darker Side of the Moon*. Would you take it seriously? Of course not. It would be ludicrous. But it would probably sell copies, wouldn’t it?

*Keeper of the Seven Keys: The Beggacy* has been tried before, and will be tried again, over and over, long after modern life has Fedex-mailed us all into our coffins. Sometimes these sorts of forced comebacks happen at a label’s behest, but other times it’s the band themselves, because they sense something dark in the world’s elaborately turning gears. They sense that they do not matter. That music does not matter. What matters is the *brand*. The brand is the valuable thing that must be fought for. That’s why we get farcical situations—multiple competing versions of RATT and Queensryche and LA Guns roaming the land, suing each other for copyright infringement. You know why they call them brands? Because they used to put them on cattle.

Long ago, on *Keeper of the Seven Keys I* Kai Hansen wrote “Future World”. It opened with a fussy but charming little pentatonic melody, notes staccato palm-muted. It sounded like a man trying to pick a lock. “We all live in happiness! / our life is full of joy! / We say the word “tomorrow” without fear!” Yeah, there was irony to it—it’s like a recruitment anthem for a cult—but I always responded to the song’s reaching, defiant optimism.

In 2005, that optimism seemed so far away. Very hard to summon (or even remember). We’d seen the truth staring like a skull: there is no Future World. There isn’t even a Present World. There’s only a Past World, to be returned to again and again, a well brimming with nostalgic memories in a dry and arid desert. The past is our one source of meaning. There can never be anything new. Just pastiches of the old. Just *Keeper of the Seven Keys Part 3* and *The Simpsons season 34* and skeletonized boomers strumming guitars and bringing back ghosts, even though they seem halfway there themselves. Maybe when you sleep in the desert of Now, you dream of wide and blue oceans, echoing the face of the sky into the deep horizon. But it’s not real. Just stick to the well—even though less and less water comes up with every pull, even though it’s dark with pollution, it’s what we have and it’s all we have. Don’t leave the well. There’s nowhere else.

Off I go to see Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark at Sydney’s Enmore Theater. No. You can’t come. “Off I go” was a rhetorical flourish. I am not going anywhere. I already went and came back and the show already happened and is over…What, you’re already halfway there? Walking? In the rain? How inconvenient.

Question: What makes live music worth experiencing? Versus, say, listening to a better-recorded version of those same songs in your living room along with enticements as “you can change the volume to whatever you like” and “if you lustfully hurl your underwear in the direction of the singer’s voice you can retrieve and wear it afterward?”

Maybe it’s the energy. Maybe it’s the risk. You do not know what will happen at a live concert. You suspect and hope that a musical artist will play some songs, but even that is in the future, undecided and uncertain. Maybe they’ll walk onstage and shoot themselves in the head. Or you in the head. Maybe they’ll declare their newfound allegiance to the British National Party or show off pictures of themselves as AI-generated anime moe girls. The futures massed before us are legion and dark. Swifties get scalped for overprice tickets, but what they’re really paying for is knowledge.

Nothing so dramatic happened at 1,600-capacity Enmore Theater on February the 16th (where OMD played their second show of a two-night run). Instead, the risks I faced were of a more mundane stripe:

• I was told my “seating” is in the stalls at row 0 in “number 6”. I do not know what any of this means. As I walk in, I see six doors marked 1 to 6, and 6 is obstructed. I am told that I need to go through door 2 to get to “number 6”, which is logical. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.
• I stood near the door, which was a mistake, as all night long people kept coming and going and I had to constantly side-eye the door for incoming traffic.
• The fiftieth time I checked the door, a young woman standing between me and it glared at me, eyes full of steel, and pointedly walked away. I realized later that she probably thought I was trying to stare down the front of her blouse.
• I stood behind a 6’6 man who was constantly coughing and sneezing.

In all, I would liken my experience to the Holocaust.

People will say I am overdramatizing, but I’m sure you’ll agree that my experience had chilling parallels with, say, Auschwitz. I rode a train. I was stamped on the wrist with a number. I was herded like cattle into an area. I was exposed to typhoid. I am currently writing a blog post that is sort of like a diary. I had to listen to an 80s British synthpop band. Really, the Holocaust similarities just keep on coming. I am a survivor. I beheld Eli Wiesel’s night firsthand.

Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark were sensational live. It was their first Australian tour since (I believe) the mid-80s. Singer Andy McClusky was six weeks removed from throat cancer. They filled the Enmore like an overflowing chalice with sound for two hours. Luminous rivers of sound.

This may not be the last time they set foot on Australia’s beaches (that part is undecided), but they absolutely played like it was.

Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

…are an experimental electronic synthpop group from Merseyside (est 1978) by primary school friends Paul Humphreys and Andy McCluskey.

Their music is cold, austere, and history-haunted. Whereas a synthpop band like Tears for Fears is markedly internal (dealing with pain and mental illness), OMD’s most famous material is overtly external, dealing in world affairs and using them as metaphors for concerns of the heart.

They wrote songs about antiquated technology—telegraphs, dynamos, and steam locomotives. When they get touchy feely about a girl, it’s generally mediated through some cultural figure, like Joan of Arc, or Nicola Tesla, or Louise Brooks. Their album covers tend to be minimal, fussy pieces of Vorticist art. You get the sense that world culture could have stopped in 1940 and OMD’s entire career could still have happened.

The track their career launchpadded off—the John Peel-boosted “Electricity”—picks at social waste and overconsumption. But they had no solutions. They were more historians than sloganeers. They were not a particularly political band, unless in the sense that existence is political. “Enola Gay” is about whether a mother should feel proud of her Little Boy. The song does not take a strong stand on the issue. The man who flew the plain was told that if he did not drop the bomb, a ground invasion would kill five million surplus people. Was this ever true? It’s unclear. A trolley problem where the train and tracks are shrouded in fog. But the bomb still fell.

Musically, their early albums have an appealing lightness and lack of substance. They wisp. They drift. Even a raging pop monster like “Enola Gay” sounds like it was transmitted from some far-away station in some bleak battle-zone, corrupted and distorted by the huge gulphs of air it’s winging through. A track like “The Messerschmidt Twins” almost feels risky to listen to—like the song will break like a Seville vase if you do.

The defining OMD album, Architecture and Morality, has a lovely haunted fragility, full of scratches and dirt and swirls of Mellotron ambience. It’s big—with conceptual dance pieces and 3/4 waltz and lavish experiments—yet also very small. The kick drum remains as an anchor to postmodernism, and sometimes it seems to be thumping alone, a heartbeat with nothing to beat against. Only the dark.

A band as frail as OMD has the disadvantage that they can easily be blown over by dominant market trends. German bands like Kraftwerk were their defining influence in the 70s. Tracking forward through their discography, you can see various trends come and go. There’s the detuned snare sound of Bowie’s Low is replaced by the massive noisegated crash of imperial-period Duran Duran. Fairlight CMI synthesizer appear in their middle years (when they enjoyed a short-lived commercial breakthrough in the US). They doggedly kept the “Glitter beat” in service well after its sell-by date on tracks like “Sailing the Seven Seas”. Then, in their later years, they lost identity, lost popularity, and lost their way.

At their biggest they were successful, but not too successful. Their label joked that they were band that “sold gold and returned platinum”—referring to unsold copies of their experimental Dazzle Ships album that were returned from retailers. They never fit in. Their early albums would have sounded very commercial to any cluey fan of German space rock. They were a bit too energetic, muscular, and working-class to pull off the Spandau Ballet-style sophisti-pop they tried later. In a shabby, genteel way, they wear outsider status well.

McCluskey and Humphreys have a kind of “Matt Parker and Trey Stone” relationship. Most of the famous OMD songs were written by McCluskey. He is a far more present member of the band, performing for the press and falooting around on stage (while Humphreys tends to stay behind his wall of synthesizers). But the albums released after Humphreys quit in the 90s are universally seen as the band’s worst. Whatever he does, it seems incredibly important that he remain in OMD.

The Show

I got there at about 7:30pm.

The opening band, The Underground Lovers (Moda Discoteca), was half-finished with their set. They seemed like a loud psychedelic dance group, projecting freaked-out fuzz over the Enmore. The guitarist had an Orange amplifier. No doubt there was a Boss HM2 pedal or two on stage. I did not form an opinion on them one way or the other.

Then OMD took the stage.

After the pre-recorded track “Evolution Of Species”, they took the stage to thunderous applause, then launched into “Anthropocene”, the lead track to their new album Bauhaus Staircase.

Andy McClusky bounced around on stage in fine, effervescent form. He called out a man in the front row who wore a Fender bass T-shirt and was (apparently) miming along to the bass parts to every song. He exchanged banter with Paul Humphries. He made us wave our hands. He started the wrong song and then laughed about it.

Over two hours, we got through an enormous amount of OMD’s back catalog (certainly, most of the parts that are seen as good). The one omission was Dazzle Ships, which wasn’t a glaring omission. It has its fans, but it’s not full of songs the proverbial mailman whistles. It would have been nice to hear “Telegram” though.

This was my chance to hear classics like “Secret” and “So In Love” in a new way – loose, dreamy pieces took on a new weight and life when they reverberated against 1,600 bodies, backed by loud modern kick drums. Fluttery weightless birds reborn as huge phoenixes. “Enola Gay” always seemed a bit depthless on record but landed like a bomb live.

The tracks off Junk Culture remained loud and gaudy. “Tesla Girls” is one of the band’s great songs, whether live or dead. Just an incredible workhorse of a dance track. A song like “Locomotion” never really clicked for me when experienced in .mp3 form, but made a lot more sense with the crowd singing along.

The “Joan of Arc” / “Joan of Arc (Maid of Orleans)” duology is one of my favorite songs, and the canonical OMD track for me. It was wonderful to hear it live. McCluskey is an atheist but effortlessly conjured a kind of suffusive religious awe.

Although the band was obviously playing to a heavy backing track, they do have live drums. The band’s most famous drummer, Malcolm Holmes, is sadly not in touring condition a the moment. In his place was Stuart Kershaw, playing the (often surprisingly strenuous) drum parts. Show-closer “Electricity” has a very quick eighth-note hi-hat beat—his wrist was whipping so fast it blurred into a solid streak of light under the stage lights.

They even dug a track or two out of the fraught Humphriesless period. “Sailing the Seven Seas” was pitched a bit high for McClusky’s throat, and he asked for the crowd to sing loudly to the chorus. They didn’t do “Walking on the Milky Way”, which famously killed the band. McClusky pulled out all the stops writing it, and when it failed to make a commercial impression he took it as a sign that the band was now truly finished. Within a few years, he was Svengali’ing a girl group.

They played quite a few tracks from their new album, Bauhaus Staircase. “Anthropocene”. “Verushka”. “Look at You Now”. “Pandora’s Box.” I have to be honest: have not listened to this album. The song did not make an impression, but maybe for the same reason The Underground Lovers also didn’t: because I lacked a context for it. Opinion to come.

After a three-song encore, we left. I immediately reaped the reward. I rode the train back. I thought about what I had seen. I do not expect to see OMD again, and if I do, it may not have all of the same members I saw tonight. They’ve lost their drummer. Who knows who’s next?

The screen behind them played a selection of music videos and other assorted footage. They had stacks of synthesizers and samplers with them on stage—at one point Humphries had to explain to McClusky how to work some bit of signaling or patching. The band is manna to the “40-60 year old audio engineer demographic”. Every time the lights swept out over the crowd, hundreds of bald middle-aged scalps gleamed.

Despite McCluskey’s infinite reserves of energy, the band also seemed very old. Hunched over their synths, the effect was weirdly poignant: like withered old men, sucked of vitality by terrifying mountains of silicon that were lifeless but also ageless. But they were no older than a good whack of their audience, and the rest will get there in time.

Maybe this is where the interest in history comes through. At the end of the day, the only way to escape death is to flow out of your body and into the books, the cenotaphs, the records. Into an afterlife that is a date and a footnote. Heaven knows the recipe.

The end of an era. Helloween’s Y2K album is the last to feature the second “classic” lineup of Weikath/Deris/Grosskopf/Grapow/Kusch. It marks a turning point: post-The Dark Ride, Helloween becomes, though not bad, more streamlined, less risk-averse, and (in my view) less interesting.

To dispatch with the obvious, no, this isn’t “nu metal” Helloween. It has some downtuned, tonally dark songs, but they mostly seem patterned after Dio/Martin-era Black Sabbath more than, say Korn.

It’s definitely confused. I’ll say that much. The band doesn’t fully commit to their new, dark style, writing a bunch of classic-style songs as well, turning the album into a bit of a patchwork. The Dark Ride is an odd, contradictory amphibian of an album that seems to exist in the sunlight and under the starless sky at the same time, with the tracklisting throwing every tonal mismatch into sharp relief. You have basically the floweriest song ever written under the Helloween imprimature (“All Over the Nations”) right next to arguably the darkest one (“Escalation 666”). “Mr Torture” is a perfect opening, “The Dark Ride” a perfect closer, but otherwise you could jumble the songs at random and get a more cohesive listening experience.

Grapow/Kusch really start driving the band here—to their detriment, as creative conflicts would soon lead to them being ousted (Grapow, 2005: “We weren’t really a band anymore and struggled with tons of issues along the way, it was best for us to leave and aim for new goals.”). They write a ton of songs, and according to Grapow, virtually all the guitar work here is his. At the same time, they were also amassing some songs that never made the album, and were later featured on the debut album of their next band, Masterplan. (You can really imagine “Into the Light” on this album, being sung by Deris.)

Kusch’s “Mr Torture” is one of the all-time Helloween opening songs. Punchy, tight, catchy, accessible, it rolls and bounces along, verses propelled by jagged runs of double-bass, the chorus opening wide up, and the bridge illuminated by a short but flashy Grapow guitar solo that lights the song on fire. Great track.

The lyrics are pretty weird, portraying some kind of…torture entrepeneur? “You can catch him on his website / Has a live chat every weeknight / Cyber-torture soon coming your way!” Well, it wouldn’t be a year 2000 album without gratuitous internet references, I suppose. (Viz Britney Spears’ “Email My Heart”)

Then Weikath’s “All Over the Nations” arrives: a fast, melodic, somewhat generic power metal track, it sounds literally nothing like the preceding or following song. Other than Deris’s vocals and Roy Z’s murky but textured production (which proves to be the glue holding The Dark Ride‘s disparate shards together), you wouldn’t even think this and “Mr Torture” were from the same album. Not offensive, but definitely a bit lightweight and “Helloween done by committee”.

Two things are noticeable about The Dark Ride: first, it’s really, really good. Possibly superior to Better than Raw, which might make it the best Helloween album ever, aside from Walls of Jericho and The Keepers.

Second, the different songwriters are really, really, really not on the same page anymore. Grapow and Kusch want darkness, Weikath stubbornly cleaves to the “happy happy Helloween” template, and Deris has a foot in both camps. Markus Grosskopf sticks to playing bass, and doesn’t write a song this time (although his composition “Deliver Us” appears on various bonus editions, and suggests he was of one mind with the Grapow/Kusch contingent.)

Grapow’s “Escalation 666” is one of the band’s most crushing and experimental tracks. A doom metal paced trudge through some inner mindscape of madness, it’s not a song, it’s a black hole yawning at the album’s core. The chugging, C-standard (I think?) opening riff sounds supernova-heavy, and the dissonant, effects-laden guitar solo reminds me of “Bleeding Eyes” off that first Masterplan album. It’s not the greatest song on the album, but it’s never far from my thoughts.

Andi Deris proves to be hit or miss like usual, writing two certified classics (the piano-driven single “If I Could Fly” and the flighty, foot-on-the-gas adventure of “We Damn the Night”) and two stinkers. “Mirror Mirror” and “I Live For Your Pain” are just chuggy, downtuned nothingburgers with mediocre ideas and no sense of catchiness or energy. Skip-button fodder. Like Helloween trying to be a grunge rock band or something.

His bonus track “Madness of the Crowds” is a fascinating “one idea” type song, pairing quiet verses with explosive choruses (and some intriguing knifing symphonic stabs). “Immortal” is the closest we have to a torch ballad. Not bad, but a bit slender when compared with Kusch’s “The Departed”, which we just heard a few minutes earlier.

The album concludes with Grapow’s “The Dark Ride”, a monolithic speed epic that’s like a tombstone for this era of the band. Beginning with the (somewhat stale) motif of amusement park sounds, it’s a bit long, but when the ideas come, they really come. Grapow really loves octave-skipping tremolo riffs (like in the pre-chorus: “Out of doubt, no hope / Satan feeds our madness”), but so do I. The guitar solo section is just straight-up Yngwie Malmsteen worship. Some of the last he ever did.

This is one of those spikey albums where the flaws are evident but the strengths are so good that even if I’m bitching about it half the time, I still love it. This is an incredibly special and important record to me. One last triumph of power metal before Y2K shut the world down.