Never Out of Season…

Fortunately, my favorite metal and hard rock bands of the 80s never reached their “Spinal Tap” moments … at least not yet. Of course, I’m willing to give Judas Priest their next album to redeem themselves, but one more embarrassing double album like last year’s Nostradamus and that previous statement’s null and void. Possibly playing to more selective audiences (it’s a damn shame Cinderella never capitalized on their brilliant transition away from glam and into a more AC/DC-sounding band, ’cause they played some damn fine amplified blues in the late 80s/early 90s), no opening for puppet shows (actually, has anyone checked the full bills on the Ratt/Extreme shows), or being reduced to free-form jazz interludes (though Scorpions symphony tour comes close). Oh, Guns ‘n Roses no longer exist for consideration, by the way. Axl and a bunch of side-men (no matter if they include ex-Replacement Tommy Stinson or not) are not the same band that recorded Appetite for Destruction or the Use Your Illusions. Repeat: dead and no longer a factor.

Motley Crue’s still kicking ass; Rick Rubin smacked Metallica out of whatever strange funk they were in on Some Kind of Monster; Def Leppard leans more heavily on their pop sensibilities than their superior High ‘n’ Dry side, but do it extremely well; finally woke up to the grade-A schmucks Eddie and Alex Van Halen are, but Sammy Hagar and Michael Anthony living and rocking nicely in Chickenfoot (also truly nice to see David Lee Roth back where he belongs in VH, but his “look at all the people,” Fozzie Bear schtick got old 20 years ago); and AC/DC obliterating the landscape with 2008′s Black Ice, their best album in years. In short, all with better-than-stable careers as they head towards or already in their 50s (or 60s in Sammy’s case) …

This brings me to the mighty, mighty Iron Maiden, the band who helped lay the groundwork for most of the great metal tunes that blared from Marshall stacks before grunge (rightfully) made Black Sabbath the down-tuning kings of the influential hill. Quick side note here for anyone who wondered where Sabbath was in the previous paragraph: having been inundated with only “Iron Man” and “Paranoid,” I didn’t get into them until about ten years ago, and I’ve fortunately caught up with the catalog. If members of Soundgarden and Alice in Chains are not calling Ozzy, Iommi, Ward and Butler once a week to say thank you, they need a good ass kicking. OK, back to Maiden…

Always struck me a little odd, my immense love for Iron Maiden, especially the timing of when they were making their best music (1982-1986). I was a near-total Kasey Kasem addict for those first couple years, and easing my way into college rock like R.E.M. and the Replacements for the second two. In both cases, pop sensibilities ruled my tastes. I believe Peter Buck called it “the acceptable edge of the unacceptable stuff.” Even the metal/hard rock I liked matched that criteria to a large degree. On the other hand, the Maiden rarely had a song under four minutes, so you knew pop radio wouldn’t play them even if they had the sense to do so, and damned if you were going to hear a long distance dedication going out to someone stamped “Run to the Hills” or “The Trooper” (that really would have been cool, though). Additonally, preppy and briefly Catholic schooled pre-teen/teenager I was, should have made no sense whatsoever.

However, throw in the Maiden’s love of history (“Genghis Khan”), fascination with mythology (“Flight of Icarus”), books/short stories I loved (“To Tame a Land” (Dune), “Murders in the Rue Morgue”) and a general avoidance of Dungeons and Dragon imagery typically present in other bands of their ilk (yes, despite any indicators and the fact I was a pretty geeky freshman/sophomore, I loathed D&D goons almost as much as prog-rockers — you just know Ian Anderson loved the D&D), and I got hooked, all setting the stage for this week’s Better Late Than Gone Forever selection.

Powerslave (1984)

While a  lot of sentimental love rests on this album because a high school English teacher actually allowed our class to listen to the epic “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in conjunction with our chapter on Coleridge’s classic poem at my suggestion, it’s hard to deny the absolute perfection on the rest of Powerslave, too. All killers, no fillers as the Buzzard’s DJs would say back in Cleveland-town.

Their previous album, Piece of Mind, hinted at the promise that became Powerslave, but it is the latter release which found the band hitting on all the cylinders of their signature sounds: Steve Harris’ galloping basslines, along with drummer Nicko McBrain (by the way, is there a better metal name or what?) careening the band forward at rollercoaster rates, fast, slow, fast again, and with several unexpected turns (“Aces High,” “Flash of the Blade”); Adrian Smith and Dave Murray’s twin guitar assault, as melodic (album highlight “Powerslave”) as stabbingly brutal (“Back in the Village,” “Two Minutes to Midnight”); Bruce Dickinson’s piercingly high and operatic vocals the ultimate vehicle for the band’s assaults (pick a song, any song … except the instrumental “Losfer Words (Big ‘Orra)” that is).

Great reminder of Powerslave‘s incredible staying power recently, too, as VH1 aired the “Somewhere Back in Time” concert and “Flight 666″ documentary. Maiden wisely chose to spotlight their mid-80s glory on last year’s tour, and I kick myself again and again I didn’t make the effort to see the show when they played LA not once, but twice (idiot, idiot, idiot). Interesting phenomenon as I watched the specials, though. I figured I’d feel the nostalgic pangs of getting older and older as the band trotted out classic after classic, but seeing the multitude of kids who did pack the arenas and stadiums, most no older than 11 or 12, had the opposite effect. Here were fans my age when I started listening to the Maiden, singing along to every lyric and banging their heads with a reckless abandon my neck can barely pull off these days, at least not without soreness for a couple days afterward. Well, with all due respect to Pulp Fiction‘s Marsellus, pride didn’t hurt, it only helped. Up. The. Irons!!!!

POST FACTO RANTO: One big problem with some members of Iron Maiden wearing their own t-shirts on stage. A) Slightly narcissitic and I only used to cut Jason Newsted slack on this issue because I never thought he got over the giddy fact he was actually in Metallica; and B) While the band surely gets them for nuttin’, honey, we’re shelling out $30-40 for these shirts. The aforementioned kids may not get it yet, but I’m old enough to crankily realize this apparent fact. (looking around the room) I’ll still buy one, though …

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