Sunday, November 16, 2014

Death From Above 1979 - The Physical World


            For almost ten years now, the music of Death From Above 1979 has captivated me. Both their debut EP and first full-length, albums which have provided me both with some of my favorite bass riffs as well as an inspiration for my style of playing, remain in heavy rotation in my car’s CD player. Their signature brand of dirty, bass-driven dance-punk had me hooked from the get-go, and so when The Physical World, their first new release in almost a decade, dropped in September, I scrambled to get my hands on a copy. My longstanding addiction to all things DFA left me with high expectations for this new record, but as usual, the vivid and authentic thumping of this band is more than enough to give me my fix.
            Though The Physical World and its predecessor You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine may be separated by years marked by animosity and stylistic exploration, that gap has only served to add a distinctive maturity to this duo’s already incredible sound. Jesse Keeler and Sebastien Grainger smash against each other with the same vigor they had in their 20s, making two instruments sound like a thousand and kicking crowds into a frenzy. Songs like “Government Trash” and “Always On” are tumultuous with slash-beats and tremolo picking for the lover of punk, while “Cheap Talk” and “Trainwreck 1979” spin out dance grooves catchy enough to make TV commercials and mainstream radio. Most importantly, though, The Physical World lacks none of the original sincerity and insanity with which I became obsessed—every note and scream is honest and hectic, pure and purposeful.


            The sound captured on The Physical World is ridiculously diverse, ranging from punk madness to dance pop and touching every point between those two poles, making it harder than ever to pin any genre label on this band. In an interview with HungerTV, Jesse remarked that “in its essence we are a punk band….but we know that what we do is not rock ‘n’ roll, it’s not pop, it’s not R‘n’B. Maybe it’s easier to identify what we’re not than what we are.”[1] As The Physical World shows, whatever genre they’re exploring, DFA dominates it. Their sound is so resonant and full, it is remarkable they are only using three instruments to make it. As Jesse puts it, “There are two things that play notes in our band and that is the bass and Sebastien’s voice. Then there is a drum kit where the drum sounds come from. We have to get our creativity across and make a song with these few pieces.”[2] No matter what sonic direction these two decide to follow, it is distinctly and unquestionably Death From Above 1979.
            Pivotal to this band’s crunchy sound is unique bass work Jesse F. Keeler’s. Keeler takes on the monumental task of covering rhythm, lead, and harmony with one instrument, yet there is no sonic void left by his playing. His riffs are driving and inventive, far surpassing the routine approach to the bass: his compositions explore the entire length of the fretboard, his fingers running through complex sequences and riffs with ease, intermingling occasional chords in songs like “White is Red” or that miraculous screeching feedback in the intro of “Gemini.” Jesse’s fluency in his instrument is remarkable, so much so that producer Dave Sardy had to ask him to “play…without sounding like [he’s] showing off.”[3]  Despite his outrageous skills and approach, he maintains the tone and feel of a bass guitar, so that even his highest highs have the resonance of the low register. Despite encompassing the sonic responsibilities of at least three people, Jesse always finds a way to make the bass the most interesting instrument you’ve ever heard, and his playing on The Physical World is no exception.


            The music on The Physical World is largely bass-driven, but it is the tight drumming and elaborate vocal work of Sebastien Grainger that molds these pieces into cohesive and vivacious songs. Grainger abuses his drum kit, bashing cymbals and skins alike in beats that are technically challenging without being noisy—even his thunderous double bass in the album’s title track fits easily against the rest of the composition. His vocalizations, ranging from sweetly sung melodies to throaty screams, add yet another level of intensity and intricacy to the tunes. Both his drumming and his singing feel heartfelt and headstrong, and it is simply fascinating that Sebastien is able to breeze through both parts simultaneously.
            The vivacity in Sebastien’s vocals extends into his lyrics as well. Ten years after the last DFA release, Sebastien has a new and mature perspective on the world; his 20’s are over, and so much of the writing on The Physical World reacts to this change. In songs like “Virgins,” he takes a wistful look over his shoulder at the insane and inane times of his youth, while in “Government Trash” he acknowledges that “Nobody knows anything at twenty-one.”[4] Sebastien’s musings extend even into the philosophical as well. In “Right on Frankenstein,” he playfully ruminates on the ideas of life and death, and how they are not entirely exclusive statuses. His closing statement of “lightning strikes the body / and that is life to most,”[5] a call to embrace every moment, is as much for himself as his listeners, because he understands that a life half-lived is equal to death.


            In an interview with Exclaim, Sebastian asserted that “If you want to be in a band, you have to believe in yourself completely….You must tell the world you are The. Best. Band. You cannot survive otherwise.”[6] Despite a decade away, Death From Above 1979 proves their hiatus has no hold on them, stomping their way back into the world and brandishing a new record that is, to the say the least, explosive. The Physical World booms with the integrity and energy that only these two could create, and that alone is well worth your attention.

Tunes to Check Out:
1) Right On, Frankenstein!
2) White is Red
3) Cheap Talk


Monday, October 27, 2014

Song Spotlight: The Smashing Pumpkins' "Infinite Sadness"


           For whatever reason, the season of autumn is synonymous in my head with the music of the Smashing Pumpkins.  As the air begins to cool and the fading foliage takes its leave, my deep-seated love for the Pumpkins’ music once again blooms, and one by one, their albums begin to cycle through my car’s CD player. However, none lingers so long as their explosive double album, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. To me, the somber yet melodious sound of that record, laden with longing and dread and exaltation and everything in between, is the very voice of the season, a voice the Pumpkins have flawlessly captured with their songs. 
           This fall, while exploring the colossal pile of music the Smashing Pumpkins have offered with their new rerelease series,[1] my research led me to an alternate track listing for the vinyl pressing of Mellon Collie, which features two tracks not included on the CD version: “Tonite Reprise” and “Infinite Sadness.”[2] With obvious excitement, I tracked these two songs down, and while I found “Tonite Reprise,” an acoustic rendition of “Tonight, Tonight,” to be interesting and appropriate, I was absolutely blown away by “Infinite Sadness,” the closer of the reimagined album.
           Itself a reprise of the symphonic title track from Mellon Collie, “Infinite Sadness” is an instrumental B-side, one of many recorded during the band’s sessions for the album.[3] Opening with deceptively gentle acoustic chords, the track suddenly explodes into movement as the keys and drums enter, all but shoving the guitar to the wayside. The symphonic arrangement is reminiscent of the opening track, yet both the choice to emulate that arrangement through synthesizers and the thundering presence of Jimmy Chamberlin’s peppy drums allow “Infinite Sadness” to draw the album to a close from a unique and powerful perspective. The vigorous and airy path on which the tune expands and evolves feels triumphant, a cumulative celebration of the many life experiences, thrilling and tragic, that Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness captures in its music. 


           The sound of this recording absolutely feels like a live take (which it very well may be), and as such, each member of the Smashing Pumpkins leaves out not a drop of energy or enthusiasm from their performances; however, there is only one star of this tune: bassist D’Arcy Wretzky. From the moment the beat drops, her bass booms through the speakers, each growling tone insisting on being heard. Rather than take the backseat as most bassists are wont to do, D’Arcy wrenches notes from every inch of her fretboard, marking the end of each phrase with flourishing lines. She plays her instrument with courage and fervor, letting her fills grow longer and more intricate as the song progresses, all without ever relinquishing her rhythmic duties.
           D’Arcy manages to turn the bass guitar in “Infinite Sadness” into the center of the song, squeezing beautiful and complex melodies from her instrument that both interlock with the whole of the piece and highlight her abilities as a musician. The musical moment she creates is monumental, as it represents one of the first times since the band gained fame that D’Arcy can truly express herself through her instrument. In an interview with SongFacts, Butch Vig, producer of the Pumpkins’ first two records, confirmed the long-running rumor that Billy Corgan recorded virtually all the strings in the early days, because he was “just technically better.”[4] While that made for two very solid and groundbreaking records, it left D’Arcy’s bass skills without a voice.
           However, with the new writing and recording processes introduced during the Mellon Collie sessions,[5] D’Arcy was able to take back the bass with full force, while the more dynamic sound the band was exploring gave her an outlet for her classical training. She blends grand orchestral arrangements and hard rocking thumps in elegant unity, giving us pieces like “Infinite Sadness” that transcend the normal bassline into realms uncharted by most rock bassists.[6] D’Arcy gives voice to the understated grandeur inherent in her instrument and so scrawls her distinct and vital signature across the Pumpkins’ music for all to experience.
           Despite its dreary name, “Infinite Sadness” is hardly a lamentation; rather, it is a monument to an instrument that rarely receives recognition, and to a player who finally found an opportunity to flaunt her skills while the tapes are rolling. In this song, D’Arcy takes a sonic opportunity and squeezes every last drop from it, subtly demanding that she be heard because her contribution is as vital as anyone else’s. With such a message at the core, “Infinite Sadness” is a song both driven and inspired, and one that I highly recommend for casual listeners and hardcore fans.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Switchfoot - The Legend of Chin


            Though I have an obvious obsession with music, it is not an all-encompassing infatuation. Some music in no way appeals to my sonic palate, and as such, there is a group of bands whose mention will immediately elicit disdain from me. For some acts, I can justify my aversion, but for others, my gut reaction of scorn has no real genesis or source. For reasons I can’t explain, Switchfoot has always been on that list. However, when I (reluctantly) gave The Legend of Chin a shot, I found myself chewing on a heady mouthful of crow, because the music this band presents on their debut is both exciting and stimulating.
            After spinning The Legend of Chin for a few weeks, I find myself rather surprised that Switchfoot was able to generate such a dynamic feel on their first record. Each of the eleven songs touch on a different section of the spectrum between the genres of pop and punk: “Home” and “You” seem tailored to fit into the Top 40, while “Edge of My Seat” and “Bomb” tap into fast beats and distorted guitars that could certainly keep a crowd moving. Furthermore, the sound that these three musicians produce is just as intricate and well-defined. Jon Foreman’s guitar chords and melodies interlock gracefully with Tim Foreman’s fluid bass lines, the two brothers’ complementing each without once muddying the music, a fact that says as much about the mixing as it does the composition. Moving along with this grace is the band’s forceful performance, imbued with a passion that Jon calls the “once-in-a-lifetime urgency that breathes down the neck of my soul and makes me cry or laugh or throw something.”[1] The Legend of Chin collects all of Switchfoot’s burgeoning creativity and consciousness and uses it to fill the few and hardly-noticeable seams in these songs, forcing this record to stand out further than just a debut. 


            All three of the instrumentalists in Switchfoot find moments to show off considerable skill and creativity, but the real strength seems to stem from Jon’s unique and guitar-driven songwriting. Many of the songs show an understanding of chord progression and melody composition rarely seen outside of jazz, perhaps stemming from the fact that Jon considers himself a “major Led Zeppelin fan.”[2] For instance, the intelligent shape of the melody allows “Might Have Ben Hur” to change keys across a tritone in the chorus, while the main progression in “Chem 6A” avoids being cliché by implying a descending chromatic riff underneath itself. Little interesting moments find their way into every tune, whether it be the chromatic hits in “Life and Love and Why” or even the multifaceted structure of “Don’t Be There,” keeping the listener interested without forcing technicalities into his ears. Jon’s approach to songwriting involves just enough music theory to avoid reusing worn-out ideas, but features a delicate restraint as well, allowing those songs to rock hard and get stuck in our heads, just as they were meant to do.
            Many of Switchfoot’s musical decisions are shrewd in their application, and it is not surprising to find the same attention in the lyric writing, albeit a different type of subtlety. Anyone who has heard of Switchfoot has undoubtedly caught wind of their Christian roots and following, an idea which extends all the way to their debut. However, when taking a close look at the lyrics on The Legend of Chin, there is nothing preachy or blatantly Christian to be found.  In fact, the only direct reference to God is in “Ode to Chin,” with the line “Life’s more than girls / God’s more than words / You’re more than this;”[3] otherwise, the positive and uplifting message that saturates Jon’s verse is presented in a neutral but effective manner. Foreman tailors his phrasing so that the subjects of songs like “You” and “Bomb” can be taken either as a god or a person—the language alone is purely positive, a text which can be supplemented by the band’s beliefs without shoving them down our throats. 


            Jon’s decision to turn belief into a subtext rather than allowing it to dominate his pieces shows some serious control of language; however, the actual lyrical work on The Legend of Chin is hardly as resolute. Much of Jon’s language is so simple that it borders on the juvenile, and the record is completely loaded with clichés, such as line “the bridges that I’ve burned” in “Home”[4] or the everlasting wedding promise “for better or worse” in “Might Have Ben Hur.”[5] Undeveloped or unimaginative lines are scattered throughout the record, but there are some good moments as well. Jon expertly epitomizes the idea of teenaged indifference in “Chem 6A,”[6] only to confront it in “Bomb” with the opening line “With blankness staring back at me / And screaming from the pages / I feel the fear of apathy / Gripping me, pushing me on.”[7] Also, “Concrete Girl” is soaked in language both cold and unmoving, thus solidifying the themes into a vivid emotional image.
            One of the most developed lyrical ideas on the record comes from the song “Underwater,” especially in their juxtaposition against the instrumentation. Across changing dynamics and a plethora of bluesy guitar chords, Jon relates to us the woes of a girl who has “nothing to be” because “she’s already been.” Against a catchy beat and rhythmic swings, we watch the subject of the song struggle to find meaning, starting fresh again and again only to end up “down [in] the bottle” as she always does. According to Jon, “The girl in Underwater faces the dilemma of modern humanity” in a world “where nothing really matters.”[8] The simple phrases Jon employs through the song envision depression as the empty and unsupportive landscape that surrounds this girl. The lyrics lack for any positivity, but even the melody that carries them is upbeat, reminding us that even when life seems at its darkest, there is always something bright hiding just behind it, if only we will reach for it. 


            If the cognitive arrangement of “Underwater” is any evidence, The Legend of Chin shows some remarkable maturity in a group whose oldest member was twenty-three at the time of recording. There is an array of diverse sounds from which to choose, and even the simplest songs have something meaningful to offer. Switchfoot’s jazz-tinged punk imbued with pop melody is tasteful and refreshing, a sound built on top of youthful enthusiasm and an overwhelming belief that “a song could go anywhere.”[9] For me, these songs have far surpassed my meager expectations, unfounded as they may have been, and I can happily say I may soon explore more of their catalog because of it.  

Tunes to Check Out: 
1) Underwater
2) Ode to Chin
3) Life and Love and Why

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Job For A Cowboy - Doom EP


            I am now a pretty strong supporter of a lot of metal music, my experience with the genre was quite limited until my senior year of high school. My main focus had always lain in pop-punk, and ska had only recently joined that tier of interest when that pivotal third-hand mix CD landed in my hands. It was only in my seventeenth year that metal took on any distinction to me, and the very first disc to do so was Job For A Cowboy’s debut EP Doom. Despite having no understanding of death metal, I found that I loved the brutally heavy atmosphere that bled from the record, an estimation that was sustained through college. However, returning to it seven years after my first encounter, I’m somewhat shocked at how small my opinion of this once-revered record has become.  
            Though less than a half hour long, Job For A Cowboy wastes absolutely no time in presenting the straightforward brutality that defines their sound. Elliott Sellers crunches his kick drum under masterful blast beats and polyrhythms, against which the strings lay out speedy harmonies and gritty chugs. The instrumental section is dominated by the interlocking play of guitarists Ravi Bhadriraju and Andrew Arcurio, who effortlessly trade off the spotlight with frantic and intelligent riffs and screeching pinch harmonics. Against this wall of sound are the squealing vocals of Jonny Davy, who growls and screams with such intensity and darkness that it sounds as if his lungs are housing a legion of demons.
            If there was any doubt that the members of JFAC were either competent or hardcore, it is quickly erased in the first thirty seconds of the murderous “Entombment of a Machine.” Those first thirty seconds are loaded with pinch harmonics, mortar-like drums, and screeching vocals, all leading up to a blood-curdling scream that sets the entire record in motion. The swirling chaos that ensues in this tune is heady and disturbing, as Davy tears from his very core the story of a sentient machine that by all accounts should have been destroyed. His final screams of “I saw it die / I watched it die”[1] are horrifying in their energy and delivery, almost conjuring this AI creature before the listener.


            “Entombment of a Machine” is a disgustingly heavy tune that, years after my first listen, still shakes me to my core with its unbridled ruthlessness. And while I have no qualms about calling all of Doom brutal, unfortunately, that brutality is all that holds up on this record. Every song is absolutely heavy, so much so that there is really no distinguishing between them. The band explores absolutely no dynamic in their writing—there’s a ton of tremolo picking and double-bass, but not much else. Sellers’ drums are undeniably killer, but the fact that marks every single turn with his ride and accent cymbals makes his drumming feel habitual rather than exciting. Similarly, Jonny Davy’s growls are so dark and devilish, but when he screams a cappella in “Suspended by the Throat,” it’s absolutely laughable. Worst of all for me is the bass work of Brent Riggs, simply because it is nonexistent. The low end is completely indistinguishable from the guitar mix, and even when he momentarily grabs the spotlight in “Relinquished” and “Suspended by the Throat,” he doesn’t even stand out.
            Similarly, the lyrical content on this record, though surprisingly poetic in some places, falls far short of the level it had held when I was seventeen. A few songs proffer original concepts and themes—“Entombment of a Machine” explores the fragility of humanity in light of technology, and “Knee Deep” blends the ideas of addiction and the Oedipus complex into a cohesive tale. However, the vast majority of Davy’s lyrical contributions play into the tropes exhausted by the death metal genre. His imagery is in fact so steeped in the violent and gory that each word might as well be soaked in blood. Worst of all, there is no subtlety or finesse to the application of those mores: “The Rising Tide” opens with the line “Blood begins to spill from an open sea / Dead bodies churn within the tide,”[2] while the entire record is closed with the blatant “Tonight you’ll die / Suspended by the throat.”[3] Though the direction that Davy takes with his verse is to be expected, after even a bit of analysis, the few ideas and images that are strong are simply not strong enough, and leave the whole lyrical section of the record feeling contrived, if not immature.


            If there is weakness on this record, it stems from two things: the band’s immaturity at the time the record was made, and the ostensible success the record immediately garnered. Between the truly polished sound of Doom and the fact that, despite negative reviews,  it launched Job For A Cowboy into the upper echelons of the metal scene,[4] it is hard to remember that this whole record was written when the members were in their teens.[5] In an interview with Loudwire, Davy remarked that “with our band, we got popular and we got a lot of recognition before we even put out a full length, which is weird; from a little ‘Doom’ EP. I think a lot of people already have their opinion on that and don’t give us a chance because of that.”[6]
            Doom has remained a highly-scrutinized record for almost ten years[7] because of its genesis in youth and inexperience, and as such, doesn’t always get a fair assessment. Although there are a bunch of weak points on the record, I am loathe to lean too hard on them, because they were born of honest enthusiasm for music, which is more than most polished musicians can offer. This complete belief is the nucleus of the record, and bleeds through every note. JFAC has confidence, so much so that they put out a deathcore record, pig squeals and all, at a time when that genre was subject to constant ridicule and disdain.[8] The initial expression of self that is burned onto the edges of every track is so real, even the silly moments prove themselves as worthy.


            I fell in love with this record at a time when (if you can believe it) I was even less mature than I am now, and thus, despite finding the years have removed some of the importance that this EP once held, I find that it still means a whole lot to me. Even though every decision on this record is predictable, I can easily chalk that up to the immaturity of JFAC, who was hardly out of high school when they penned these songs. Furthermore, I find that the youthful approach taken on this album lacks not an iota of the brutal honesty that every band should exude. Job For a Cowboy pumps everything they are into the core of Doom, and the sound of that truth never taints or fades because it is the most eternal—and the most human—sound that exists.

Tunes to Check Out:
1) Entombment of a Machine
2) Knee Deep
3) Relinquished

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Luti-Kriss - Throwing Myself


Like many instrumentalists, my musical story begins in my teen years. This period introduced me to my favorite bands, watched me develop my bass playing into something vaguely unique, and was the soil that birthed my first band, Sock Full of Pennies. Later, in high school, SFOP had morphed into the ska-punk outfit Nothing to Prove, which gave me my first exposure to the ups and downs of being in a local music act. Looking back at our inexperience in song writing, performance, and life in general, I find I am not embarrassed of those days, because they were the genesis of my musical life, the first steps on a crazy journey along which I am still reeling.  
When I listen to my favorite bands, it is hard to believe that they were once as young, or as bad, or as naïve as we were, or that they too have a youthful genesis, made up of days filled with heartbreak and overblown emotion and madness, days they hold dear and rarely let slip into the open. However, all musicians have an act that is to them what Sock Full of Pennies is to me, the act where they learned to give music their all. For Norma Jean, one of my very favorite bands, this forerunner is the group Luti-Kriss, and when I finally laid hands on a copy of their full-length, Throwing Myself, I was given the opportunity to experience the youthful push of some of my idols.
While most of us leave behind many smoldering bridges before we meet the creators that help crystallize our vision, interestingly, the line-up for almost all of Luti-Kriss’ existence is the same line-up that began as Norma Jean. In fact, Norma Jean would most likely still be tearing it up under that original moniker if not for the southern rapper who shares the same name (hardly a shame, if I’m being honest). However, with the name change also came a shift in sound—Luti-Kriss is heavy, but Norma Jean is far heavier—and so both members and fans alike tend to regard these acts as completely separate entities.[1]
The band’s name may scream of immaturity and youth, but the roiling timbre that Luti-Kriss provides feels experimental but hardly underdeveloped. Throwing Myself is a testament to the days when these musicians were still figuring out just how heavy they could be, and as the band was born during the rise of both metalcore and nu-metal, this record features a strange blend of both genres. Scottie Henry and Chris “Derr” Day rage against their guitars, peppering the tunes with tritone chords and palm-muted chugs. Josh Doolittle nails down the low-end, locking endlessly with the flamboyant drumming of Daniel Davidson, whose extensive cymbal collection seems perfectly mic’d. Layered within this maelstrom is Josh Scogin’s throaty growls and howling screams, adding a touch of hardcore to the blend that pulls this band away from the nu-metal label into something infinitely heavier, a sound Davidson affectionately labeled “Cron.”[2]



This smooth synthesis of nu-metal and metalcore gives Throwing Things a rather unique sound, as Luti-Kriss finds ways to slip between the “heavy that makes it onto the radio” and the “heavy your parents can’t stand.” Songs like “Petty Larson” and “Last Breath/First,” while loaded with Scogin’s screaming, back away from the breakdowns and chugs of metalcore, focusing in a more digestible sound palate, yet “Light Blue Collar” and “The ‘Anni Hilat’ Ion” are driven with the barbed whips of tritone chords and dastardly palm mutes that quickly turn a crowd into a mosh pit. Throwing Things shows five kids wavering between two distinct genres, leaning sometimes towards the sound of Mudvayne and sometimes towards Underoath, and though their future endeavors let us know which side they chose, it is fascinating to hear Luti-Kriss develop in the path of that choice.
As the sound of the record shows, Throwing Things was obviously part of the learning process for Luti-Kriss, a record where they began refining their music to reflect those things they hold dear. This is manifested also in the lyrics of the record, which kick off a campaign that most of these musicians have shouldered since. Though Scogin is responsible for the lyrics here, the whole band at this time shares his heady and positively Christian outlook, probably since they all became Christians as a unit. According to Scottie in an interview with Decapolis, “before we got saved we were just [making music] for fun….but after the change….we wanted to glorify God as much as we could and reach out to as many kids like us that we could.”[3] After this moment, their purpose for making music took on a larger-than-life meaning to them, and since this can’t truly be expressed through the instruments, Scogin took it upon himself to focus all of his lyrical writing through the lens of God.
With one listen, it quickly becomes obvious that Scogin is no poet, focusing on praising his inspiration rather than exploring it or interpreting it. However, he does utilize biblical imagery rather well, mixing religious and militaristic ideas with a very “Old Testament” feel. He even inserts direct references to the Bible: “An Act of My Own Volition” calls on the iconic two thieves,[4] while in “Catharsis,” Scogin implores that God to “bathe [his] feet among the wicked.”[5]



While Scogin’s messages are surely suited for a Christian audience, they end up pretty hard to digest for anyone who isn’t of his faithful persuasion. It doesn’t help that his vocals are all but unintelligible—his screams are heavy but poorly expressive, and even when he does attempt to sing in songs like “Patiently Philadelphia,” his vocals are so buried in the mix they’re almost nonexistent. Interestingly, however, Scogin seems to be completely aware that both his singing and his topics aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, and addresses as much in “For Shadows” where he asserts his convictions with the lines “I see a controversy / and the world looking at me / Eighteen years / I’m done with chairs.”[6] It takes guts to be so gung-ho about one’s beliefs, and so even though the blatant Christian overtones might lack subtlety, it’s hard not to give Luti-Kriss credit for putting their youth to a purpose so fully.
Along with the marginal lyrical work, there are a few other decisions on Throwing Myself that don’t quite work. Vocals aside, the whole mix is rather messy, especially on the hidden track—the guitars very easily blend together and the drum kit is stacked with enough reverb to make an 80’s hair-metal band sick. Also, about half the songs also feature Mick Bailey on turntables and sampling, parts which apparently weren’t removed after he left halfway through recording,[7] but simply buried in the mix. His only real contributions are the bottle-rocket glissandos that pepper the heavier riffs, but ultimately, he was completely unnecessary to the sound, because the parts are so sparse and pointless, you forget he was even there.
These faults are pretty prevalent when the record is in heavy rotation, but I am more than happy to chalk them up to the naiveté of youth and count them as steps on the road to refining their sound, because there are moments when they get everything right. One example is the song “Light Blue Collar,” in which these five musicians encompass the entirety of their metal upbringing: the main riff centers around a thrashed tritone chord, which is whipped about on the tail of some disturbing palm mutes and hammer-ons. Davidson’s drum sticks batter his kit into submission in the multiple breakdowns, and just as the song begins to unwind into chaos, Josh’s arrogant scream rips it into a heavy chugging riff followed by a melodically destructive outro. “Light Blue Collar” epitomizes Luti-Kriss’ sonic intentions, grabbing with both hands to define this corner of music as their own.


In a review from the website jesusfreakhideout.com, Sherwin Frias calls Throwing Myself “the opening salvo that sets the stage for any future mayhem their later incarnation would be known for.” Despite the youth-driven decisions and overconfident message, this record stands on its own as heavy, hearty, and honest. For me, the raw and untested sound to which Luti-Kriss gives life on this full-length is one that I cannot help but appreciate, for it led to the conception of one of my favorite bands. Without every mistake embedded on this disc, Norma Jean would not have evolved into the intelligent, technical, and powerful act that I have come to adore. Luti-Kriss and Throwing Myself are a pivotal part of Norma Jean’s story, just as Sock Full of Pennies and Nothing to Prove are parts of mine; without our origins, the humans and the creators we are today hold little significance, because they have none of the hard-earned truth that gives all art both meaning and life.

Tunes to Check Out:
1) Light Blue Collar
2) Petty Larson
3) Patiently Philadelphia