Classic Songs to Be Discovered, Influenced, Music, My Stories

How Has It Aged: Iron Maiden – Dance Of Death

I don’t think there’s a bigger gap in all of metal between what your eyes see and what your ears hear than Iron Maiden’s “Dance of Death”

That cover?

The kind of thing you’d expect from a high schooler messing around with a pirated copy of 3D Studio Max in 1998. Or AI before AI was a thing.

Even Bruce admitted it was embarrassing. The artist literally pulled his name from the credits. Ouch.

But the music?

It rips. Maiden have always straddled old-school NWOBHM swagger and proggy sprawl, and here it actually clicks.

“Wildest Dreams”

“I’m gonna organize some changes in my life / I’m gonna exorcise the demons of my past”

This is the fantasy we all cling to, reinvention. The Monday morning promise that this week will be different. Except most people don’t make it past Tuesday.

Maiden’s framing it like a road trip, car, open road, freedom. But the truth is, it’s not about cars or roads, it’s about finally deciding you’re sick of your own excuses.

“Rainmaker”

How good is that intro?

“And the cracks in our lives like the cracks upon the ground / They are sealed and are now washed away”

Life is drought and flood. You hold on through the dry years, praying for rain that never comes. Then suddenly it pours, and for a second you think you’re redeemed.

But the cracks never really go away. They just fill up long enough for you to forget they’re there.

“No More Lies”

The bass intro. Typical Steve Harris. It builds momentum and the guitars decorate nicely.

“A hurried time no disgrace / Instead of racing to conclusion / And wishing all my life away”

This is the punch in the face. How much of your life have you already burned, fast-forwarding to some imagined future?

Graduation. Job. Promotion. Retirement.

Always waiting for the next thing instead of living the one thing. Harris is telling you flat out: stop trading your minutes for illusions.

“Montségur”

The song is forgotten at 3.92 million streams on Spotify. But it’s one of the best songs on the album.

“As we kill them all so God will know his own / The innocents died for the Pope on his throne”

This isn’t just history. This is the template. Power always finds a holy excuse. Wrap the violence in God, justice, freedom, it doesn’t matter. People still burn.

The castle becomes a metaphor for every system that crushes dissent under the flag of righteousness.

“Dance of Death”

Compared to other Maiden classics, 42.92 million streams is low.

With this, Maiden tried to recreate the vibe of “Fear Of The Dark”.

And when the solo sections kick in, a person would think they did.

“As I danced with the dead / My free spirit was laughing and howling down at me”

The most terrifying truth: sometimes we want the very thing that destroys us. There’s a seduction in surrender, in letting go of control and joining the dance.

The “dead” aren’t zombies, they’re every crowd you’ve ever followed against your better judgment. The fire looks dangerous, but it feels warm.

“Gates of Tomorrow”

The major key vibe shows their “Who” influences.

“There isn’t a god to save you if you don’t save yourself”

That’s it. The rawest line on the record. Forget prayers, forget systems, forget waiting. If you’re drowning, you don’t need an angel, you need to swim.

“New Frontier”

“Out beyond the new frontier / Playing god without mercy, without fear”

Science, AI, genetic engineering, Maiden saw the abyss before it had a name.

The question isn’t can we do it, it’s what happens when we do?

And the scariest part isn’t Frankenstein’s monster. It’s us realizing we’re no different than the monster.

“Paschendale”

Adrian Smith strikes again, crafting the music to one of my favourite songs on the album. And at 12.68 million streams on Spotify, it’s also forgotten.

“Blood is falling like the rain / Its crimson cloak unveils again”

This isn’t poetry. It’s eyewitness testimony. Every generation pretends their war is noble, unique. But the rain always turns red, the ground always swallows the boys, and the politicians always stay dry.

The most human line on the whole record: “Surely a war no-one can win.”

And yet we keep signing up.

“Face in the Sand”

“So I watch and I wait / And I pray for an answer / An end to the strife and the world’s misery / But the end never came”

This is apocalypse fatigue.

Everyone waiting for the end, everyone secretly hoping it will finally level the scales. But the world doesn’t collapse in fire. It just drags on.

More headlines, more waiting, more lies. The sand keeps shifting, and we’re still staring into it for signs.

“Age of Innocence”

“The working man pays everything for their mistakes / And with his life too if there was to be a war”

That’s the deal and always has been: the people in suits gamble, the people in uniforms pay.

The “age of innocence” isn’t about childhood. It’s about the brief moments in history when you forget the world is rigged against you.

And those moments don’t last.

“Journeyman”

“I know what I want / And I say what I want / And no one can take it away”

The whole album builds to this declaration. After death dances, wars, false prophets, and systemic lies, what’s left?

You.

Your voice.

Your will.

Maiden strip it all back at the end: acoustic guitars, no armor. The journeyman isn’t a hero. He’s just a man who refuses to shut up and disappear.

And Bruce?

The man sounds like he found a time machine back to 1982. He sings like he’s got something to prove, like he’s still fighting to be the frontman of the biggest metal band in the world.

The album’s sound takes a hit from the era’s ‘loudness wars’ mix.

So yeah, the cover’s a dumpster fire.

But the album?

It’s Iron Maiden still swinging for the fences in 2003, and connecting more often than not.

It’s their last album with an ’80s-style vibe before shifting into their pseudo-prog NWOBHM/rock phase.

Overall, “Dance of Death” maintains Iron Maiden’s signature sound while experimenting with different themes and musical styles.

The album’s mix of shorter, more straightforward tracks and longer, more intricate compositions contributes to its diverse appeal.

And for that, the album has aged well.

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Diane Warren — The Relentless Hook Machine

I finally got around to that old Bob Lefsetz podcast with Diane Warren. December 13, 2017. Been sitting in my “listen later” pile for years. That’s how it goes, too much to do, too many songs, too many distractions.

But Warren… she’s different.

If you grew up in the ’80s, you already know her, even if you don’t think you know her. Flip through your record collection, there’s probably a Warren song hiding in there. For me, it was everywhere.

Mannequin. “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship. Warren.

Kiss “Turn On the Night.” Warren. Their “biggest” song, “You Make Me Rock Hard” had a Warren co-write.

Heart “Who Will You Run To,” “I Didn’t Want To Need You.” Warren.

Cheap Trick’s “Ghost Town.” Bon Jovi’s “Wild Is the Wind.” Alice Cooper’s “Bed of Nails.” Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time.” Michael Bolton, Taylor Dayne, Cyndi Lauper, Bad English. Hell, even Ratt. One of my favourite Ratt songs, “Givin Yourself Away” was co-written by Warren.

I thought I knew her range until I stumbled on “Lonely Beat of My Heart” on Steve Lukather’s “Lukather” album. Warren.

Then Vixen. Jimmy Barnes. Richie Sambora. And just when you think she’s all power ballads and mainstream rock, she shows up on Disturbed’s “Evolution” with a bonus track called “Uninvited Guest.”

And that’s just from my shelves, albums I physically own, mostly spanning ’85–’92. A fraction of the real story.

Her publishing company is called “Real Songs”. She wanted “Warren Peace”, but the name was already taken. Of course she owns the building, upgrades the studios, controls her environment. That’s what obsession looks like, build the nest so you can never be kicked out.

The obsession started early. Kicked out of school. Two weeks in juvie. A father who saw the fire, bought her a guitar, then a Martin, then built her a shed to write in. No Plan B. Just the work.

She broke in at 23 writing for Laura Branigan. “Rhythm of the Night” came soon after. But her first publishing deal was a nightmare, a five-year trap she bailed on early. Got sued. Couldn’t work for 12 months while the lawyers circled. She ended it herself by calling her ex-boss directly, settling without letting the attorneys siphon off the payout. That move, walking away from a bad deal, was the prelude to her starting “Real Songs”.

Even now, she hustles. She’ll pick up the phone and pitch a song cold. “No pressure, just listen.” Doesn’t care if they say no. Because if they say yes, she’s got another track in the bloodstream.

Her process is simple: show up, work. A song a week. She finishes the ones she loves, abandons the ones she doesn’t. Loves writing solo. Most of the time it’s love songs, ironic, since she’s never been in love.

Her biggest movie tie-in? “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” for “Armageddon”, thanks to a friend connected to Aerosmith. That’s how the real deals happen, through relationships, not résumés.

On streaming, she thinks it’s killed songwriter incomes. I don’t fully buy it, Ryan Tedder sold part of his catalog for $200 million, and he’s a post-Napster success story. But Warren’s point is valid: it’s harder now for a new songwriter to make bank without wearing the artist hat too.

Forty-plus years, still relevant, still writing, still obsessed.

That’s the thing about Diane Warren, she’s not the artist, not the star on the stage. But she’s the ghost in the machine. The pen behind the chorus you’ve been humming for decades. The one who refuses to stop.

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Down To Earth

In honor of Ozzy, this is a rewrite/re-review of a post written a few years ago.

October 16, 2001. The towers are down. The country is shook. And Ozzy Osbourne drops “Down to Earth”, an album caught in the crossfire between his myth and his mortality.

This isn’t Ozzy the bat-biting madman. This is Ozzy the tired father, the aging icon, the guy who’s slowly realizing that the monster people made him into is more cartoon than chaos now. It’s a rock album, sure, but under all the distortion is something we didn’t expect: a man falling apart, loudly.

Zakk Wylde’s back, but barely. He’s a hired gun here, not the warlord we saw on “No More Tears”. He plays, but doesn’t write a damn note. And that’s a first.

Instead, you’ve got a Frankenstein writing crew: Joe Holmes, Rob Trujillo, Mike Bordin, Mick Jones (yep, from Foreigner), Geoff Nichols, Marti Frederiksen, Tim Palmer, even Danny Saber. At one point, Offspring,Weezer and Dave Grohl tried to contribute songs. Dave Fucking Grohl. Zakk’s response in a Guitar World interview from November 2001? Legendary:

“Foo Fighters is a fucking candy-ass girl band… Let him get up there and play Mr. Crowley.”

Not exactly a warm collab.

The chaos behind the scenes? You can hear it. This album wasn’t created, it was stitched together like a body in a morgue. And somehow, it lives.

Tim Palmer, best known for producing U2 and Tears for Fears, was a bizarre choice for Ozzy. But he co-wrote most of the songs, played a bunch of instruments, and literally took the guitar out of Zakk’s hands to show him how to play it “better.”

Zakk was not amused. He wanted Les Pauls and Marshalls. Palmer wanted Telecasters and tone. They clashed like metal and pop always do.

And you feel that in the sound: polished, but bruised. Heavy, but with an identity crisis. It’s an album at war with itself, because its creators were at war with each other.

Gets Me Through

Ozzy rips the mask off: “I’m not the Antichrist or the Iron Man.” He thanks his fans while telling them they don’t really know him. The riff is heavy, the message heavier: Don’t believe the myth. Believe the mess.

Facing Hell

Religious hypocrisy served with a chugging riff and eerie ambience. If this was released today, it’d be written off as edgy. In 2001, it was relevant as hell.

Dreamer

This is Ozzy’s “Imagine.” A plea for peace from a man who once snorted ants. And it works. Earnest, beautiful, a little cheesy, but it lands.

No Easy Way Out

Ozzy admits he’s cracked. “Superman is dead.” Depression isn’t a lyric trend here, it’s a lived-in reality.

That I Never Had

Chasing fulfillment and coming up empty. He’s rich, famous, adored, and utterly hollow.

You Know… (Part 1)

A short Beatles-esque lament about broken relationships and time lost. This isn’t the monster’s voice anymore, it’s the man behind the curtain saying, “I fucked up.”

Junkie

The glamorization of addiction gets burned to the ground here. “That beautiful flower is eating your mind.” This isn’t heroin-chic. This is heroin as soul-eater. The prettiest things destroy you slowest.

Running Out of Time

Faith, hope, reason, all gone. “I haven’t even got a soul to sell.” This isn’t a cry for help, it’s a resignation letter written in blood and barbiturates.

Black Illusion

The manipulators wear makeup and smiles, and so does Ozzy. That’s the twist. The song starts as a warning. It ends as a confession. We’re all part of the illusion.

Alive

Maybe the most underrated cut here. It’s broken, desperate, hopeful, like someone who’s still breathing not because they want to, but because they’re too scared to stop.

“What keeps me alive is dreams.”

That line alone is enough to earn this song its place.

Can You Hear Them?

Ozzy’s final moment on the album is pure existential fatigue. “So sick and tired of living, and so afraid to die.” It’s not melodrama. It’s just truth. Raw, cold, unfiltered truth.

It’s not a classic. It’s not “Blizzard” or “Diary” or even “No More Tears”. But it’s important.

This is the album where the mask slips. Where the 70s horror movie Ozzy becomes the 2000s reality TV Ozzy. Where fame stops being a fantasy and starts being a funeral.

Post-9/11, the world was suddenly a darker, more cynical place. And “Down to Earth”, accidentally or not, caught that shift in tone perfectly.

“Down to Earth” is a crash landing. A confession booth in the middle of a circus. It’s Ozzy finally admitting: “I’m not who you think I am. I never was.”

And that? That’s the most rock & roll thing he’s done in decades.

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Twilight Cruiser

The self-titled debut from Kingdom Come took the charts by storm in 1988. “In Your Face” broke up the band a year later. A new all German version of Kingdom Come put out the underrated “Hands Of Time” in 1991, the last album on their Polydor contract. It did nothing and they lost their U.S deal, but with a proviso that no other U.S label could sign them unless Polydor allowed them to.

And Lenny Wolf refused to stop.

“Bad Image” came in 1993, and then “Twilight Cruiser” dropped in 1995.

Both albums are forgotten. But they shouldn’t be. While grunge and industrial metal took over the airwaves, melodic blues based rock was still alive and well.

Lyrically, “Twilight Cruiser” deals with isolation and loneliness. A metaphor for someone who wanders through life aimlessly, searching for meaning and purpose.

“I can hear the silence in the dark”

This isn’t just synesthesia. It’s not poetry for its own sake. This is sensing the void. Not hearing nothingness, but hearing silence as presence, not absence. Like when you’re up at 2AM, and the world’s asleep, but your mind’s loud. This line doesn’t describe loneliness. It names it, in that way only people who have lived through it understand.

The kind of quiet you only recognize after the show’s over, after the crowd is gone, and you’re left with yourself and your ringing ears. That moment where you realize nobody is coming to save you, and that’s liberating as hell.

“Closing in the distance to my heart”

What was once out there, distant, abstract, is getting personal. The silence, the unknown, the ‘thing’ we fear or yearn for… it’s now at your chest, tapping your sternum. The detachment is gone. It’s getting intimate.

This could be grief. It could be love. It could be the epiphany that comes only after you’ve burned all the other options to the ground.

“Now and then a quick glance at the stars / Coming of a deep trance, peace at large”

Here’s the shift. A quick look up, a glance at something eternal, pulls you from your hypnotic state. You’re no longer in autopilot. You wake. You feel. It’s the spiritual equivalent of ripping your VR headset off and realizing you’re in a galaxy.

This is what rock and roll used to do before algorithms turned it into background noise. It used to wake you up.

The peace doesn’t come from control, it comes from surrender. You stop needing answers and start loving the questions.

“Like a soothing shelter over me / I have come to love her mystery”

Now she arrives. But she’s not a person. Not quite. She’s the Night, the Muse, the Unknown.

You used to fear the dark. Now it’s your cloak.

What once confused you now holds you, not because it explains itself, but because it lets you dissolve into it.

You’re no longer demanding clarity. You’re falling in love with chaos.

“Making me surrender, letting go / Guiding me so tender, very slow”

You’re not driving anymore. The wheel’s gone. Control is a myth, and thank God.

You’re being guided, not pushed. Led, not dragged.

There’s a tenderness to this surrender. It’s not violent. It’s almost erotic.

Like the way a great solo builds slowly, not to impress, but to invite.

It’s permission to be human.

The problem is thinking you have to fix everything. The answer is learning how to bleed without flinching.

“When the night is falling / I hear voices calling”

This is your moment of becoming. The night doesn’t just fall like a curtain, it opens a portal.

The voices? They’re not ghosts. They’re not demons. They’re memories, regrets, desires.

They’re everything you silenced in daylight.

At night, the suppressed becomes symphony. Lying in bed with nothing but a song and a past you can’t outrun.

“Like an aimless shooter / I’m a twilight cruiser”

The aimless shooter isn’t violent. He’s drifting. Firing into the void not to hit something, but to make noise, to feel real.

The twilight cruiser is someone who lives in the in-between. Not day. Not night. Not good. Not evil. Just existing in the grey zone, free from roles, from right answers.

This is the archetype of the modern antihero, the midnight philosopher, the vagabond spirit searching not for destinations, but for feeling.

It’s the cowboy without a saddle.

The punk without a cause.

The part of you that wasn’t made for daylight.

This song is a meditation disguised as melody. It’s about drifting into mystery, letting go of the need to dominate your inner world, and falling in love with uncertainty. It’s not a love song, it’s a survival song, whispered from the edge of isolation, written for people who are done pretending everything makes sense.

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David Roach’s Last Stand: The Voice Behind Junkyard’s Raw, Relentless Rock

Behind the riffs and raw grit, the human story of a frontman who never pretended to be anything but real.

If you were there in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, you knew Junkyard. “Blooze.” “Hollywood.” “All the Time in the World.”

They weren’t polished like Guns N’ Roses, they looked like they’d just changed your oil and stolen your beer. I loved them then. Still do.

You could say wrong place, wrong time hurt Junkyard. They had the raw goods, a sleazy, swaggering street take on AC/DC’s DNA, twisted with punk grit, but the market was already splintering. Their debut hit in 1989, produced by Tom Werman, engineered by Duane Baron, tight as a fist and twice as loud.

Chris Gates came up with the name “Junkyard.” “Crack” was considered, until the drug hit the evening news.

These guys didn’t just appear, they’d been grinding since the early ‘80s. Gates and Brian Baker came from hardcore punk, Minor Threat, The Big Boys. Todd Muscat and Patrick Muzingo had been pounding stages with Decry since ’83.

They formed Junkyard in 1987, Virgin Records sniffed first, but at a gig with Jane’s Addiction and Green River, Geffen swooped in. The A&R guy knew their punk past. Deal sealed.

They didn’t fit the Motley Crüe/Poison mold. They weren’t aiming for Bon Jovi/Journey polish. They belonged to the third camp, alongside Raging Slab, Dangerous Toys, Circus of Power, where punk, classic rock, and Southern boogie collided. The debut was a cocktail of Bad Company swagger, AC/DC crunch, Aerosmith groove, ZZ Top dirt, Southern rock twang, and just enough Guns N’ Roses grit to catch Geffen’s eye (though they were signed before “Appetite for Destruction” blew up).

“Blooze” kicked the door in. “Simple Man” gave us “throwing pennies into the wishing well”, so simple, so perfect. “Shot in the Dark”, not Ozzy’s, was pure sleaze. “Hollywood” had a riff Gates swore came from a “Cheech & Chong”movie. MTV picked up the Jean Pellerin–directed video. “Life Sentence” roared like Motorhead. “Texas” nodded to ZZ Top’s “La Grange”. “Hands Off” had gospel swagger and filthy humor.

Then came “Sixes, Sevens & Nines”. Darker, heavier. By ’92, Geffen dropped them. The wave shifted. Nirvana landed. Labels chased the next Seattle messiah. Muzingo told Sleaze Roxx:

“We knew we weren’t gonna be millionaires doing this. We all got real jobs. No drama, no BS.”

Reality check: even with a major label deal, most bands end up back at day jobs. They had a third album, “103,000 People Can’t Be Wrong”, but Geffen’s ultimatum (use their producer or walk) killed it. The industry had moved on.

Still, Junkyard didn’t disappear. “Demos” in 2008. New songs in 2015. “High Water” in 2017 with Tim Mosher, followed by tours that proved they were leaner and meaner. 2019’s “Old Habits Die Hard”. Two more tracks in 2021. Then… silence.

Until 2025, when the silence broke for the worst reason. David Roach, voice, snarl, and face of Junkyard, had cancer. His wife, Jennifer Michaels, had saved him once, pulled him out of the gutter, gave him love, stability, purpose. She’d been the one to convince him to get that swollen lymph node checked. It was squamous cell carcinoma of the head, neck, and throat. By June 2025, it had spread to his lungs and liver. She quit her job to care for him until he passed away in his sleep.

On August 2, 2025, Junkyard posted:

It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of David Roach.

After a courageous battle with cancer, David passed away peacefully last night at home, in the loving arms of his wife.

He was a gifted artist, performer, songwriter, and singer—but above all, a devoted father, husband, and brother.

Dangerous Toys’ Jason McMaster told it best. He remembered David as the cool punk kid from high school, the guy who could hang with anyone. In ’89, their bands released albums the same week. Their videos debuted back-to-back on MTV. They toured together. Men cried when it ended. In 2022, David moved in next door to Jason. A year later, he met Jennifer. And then cancer came.

The thing about David Roach, he made rock ‘n’ roll feel like it belonged to the rest of us. Not the pretty people. The real ones. And that’s what hurts. You can’t fake authenticity. You can’t fake cool. And you sure as hell can’t fake the hole it leaves.

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Ozzy

I was late to the Ozzy party but once I joined, I could never leave.

Secret Loser

It started with this.

I was watching “The Wraith”, that glorious mess of a film where Charlie Sheen gets murdered by a car gang and comes back from the dead to destroy them in high-speed races. Total 80s nonsense. Beautiful.

And then this song kicks in, “Secret Loser”.

I’m floored. Jake E. Lee’s riff grabs you by the throat. Randy Castillo’s drumming? Thunderous. Bob Daisley holds the bottom end like a goddamn surgeon while writing the lyrics and acting as the unofficial musical director. Criminally underrated, all of them.

Shot In The Dark

Suddenly I started to notice Ozzy everywhere. “Hit Parader”. “Faces”. “Kerrang”. Any ragged, smudgy magazine I could get my hands on.

Then the “Shot In The Dark” music video drops on TV. I’m hooked. Again. Shoutout to Phil Soussan, he wrote a total earworm that became a copyright mess later. Classic rock n’ roll story.

I was a fan and yet, I hadn’t spent a cent on an Ozzy album.

That was about to change.

Crazy Train

I catch a music video of “Crazy Train” off the “Tribute” album. Blew my adolescent brain apart.

I didn’t know what modes were, or how going from F# minor to A major could tap-dance on your dopamine receptors, but it did. And Randy’s solo? Like someone threw lightning into a blender and made it melodic.

So I did what every kid did in the ’80s did. I went out searching for the music. The “Tribute” album at the time was sold out in my local store so I bought “Bark At The Moon” on cassette… and played it to death.

From the first riff to the last breath of “Waiting For Darkness”, I was in.

Funny part?

I didn’t even know who Randy Rhoads was until 1987, when “Tribute” came out.

That album changed everything.
My favorite live album. Knocked “Live After Death” off its throne.

I didn’t just listen to “Tribute”. I studied it. The tab book became my gospel. The holy book of guitar nerds everywhere.

“Children of the Grave” on that album? Absolute fire. Randy’s solo turns the whole Sabbath vibe into a soaring, melodic battle cry.

Miracle Man

The pigs. The bullseye guitar. The demented brilliance of it all.

“Miracle Man” was bizarre and perfect. A middle finger to the televangelist freakshow of the time and also to our sense of reality.

This was a perfect theme for Ozzy. He appeared in the movie “Trick or Treat”. He’s on TV telling kids heavy metal is the work of the devil. It’s meta. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. And then the devil of the movie reaches into the TV screen, grabs Ozzy by the throat and chokes him to death.

Mr. Tinkertrain

Yeah, the lyrics are creepy. Like, really creepy.

But let’s not ignore the groove. It slaps.

Castillo on drums, Geezer Butler on bass, Zakk Wylde doing his loud-quiet-loud Jekyll-and-Hyde thing on guitar, it’s sinister and intoxicating.

Over the Mountain / Diary of a Madman

If these were on “Tribute”, that album would’ve broken the damn rating scale.

“Over the Mountain” is Sabbath DNA through and through. But “Diary”?

That’s the masterpiece.

It’s what this band could’ve become a blend of metal, classical, and time-signature wizardry. Prog meets doom. Beauty meets chaos.

Also, fun fact: Machine Head has used “Diary of a Madman” as their intro tape for 20+ years. Respect.

Old L.A. Tonight

Melancholy done right.
It’s nostalgia in a bottle, like yearning for a time you never really had but somehow still miss.

And Zakk’s solo? It sings.

Gets Me Through

Zakk didn’t write it. Doesn’t matter.

He owned it.

The riff is heavy. The vibe is real.
And Ozzy’s message is clear: you, the fans, are the reason he’s still standing.

Black Rain & Scream

Yeah, I bought ’em. Didn’t click.
Felt like the magic dimmed.

Ordinary Man & Patient Number 9

Then the Andrew Watt records dropped. Different but familiar. A reboot that didn’t suck.

“Straight To Hell” = vintage Sabbath.

“Goodbye” = Ozzy solo meets Beatles vibes.

But Patient Number 9?

That’s the one. Loaded with guitar gods. Packed with emotion. If this album doesn’t hit you in the soul, go check if you’ve still got one.

You can’t talk about Ozzy without talking about Sharon.

They’re a weird, dysfunctional symbiotic storm. But it works. Without Sharon, Ozzy’s solo career doesn’t exist. And without Ozzy, Sharon’s not a media empire.

They’re chaos and control. Yin and “holy-shit-get-the-fire-extinguisher” yang.

The Authorship Drama

It’s the elephant in the room that no one will remember once we’re all dead.

Jake E. Lee and Bob Daisley?

Did the work, got none of the credit.

Phil Soussan’s “Shot in the Dark” co-writers?

Silenced in the shuffle.

Lemmy wrote lyrics for a lot of songs on “No More Tears” and “Ozzmosis” and only got credits for a few. Paid well, sure, but still.

That’s rock history: full of brilliance, bullshit, and blown-up contracts.

Ozzy is more than a musician, he’s an institution.

Broken, brilliant, bizarre. And totally f*cking unforgettable.

And somehow, whether he was singing about war pigs, barking at moons, or being patient number nine, he always gave us something real underneath the madness.

And that’s why we kept coming back.

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Jason Flom: The Relentless A&R Rebel Who Shaped the Soundtrack of a Generation

From The Lefsetz podcast.

Jason Flom didn’t just stumble into the music business. he was basically dared into it. His dad, legendary lawyer Joe Flom (yeah, that Joe Flom, the one Malcolm Gladwell wrote a whole damn chapter about in “Outliers”), once told him he had a deal: become a rock star or go to school. Jason was ready to pick the guitar. His mom was ready to murder someone. Guess who won?

So, instead of ending up in a dive bar strumming power chords for PBR money, Flom got shoved into Atlantic Records thanks to some family favors. Sounds easy, right? It wasn’t. Because once you’re in the building, you still have to prove you’re not a poser.

Flom watched the A&R guys and thought, “I can suck less than these dudes with 30% effort.”

So he put in actual effort. Found “Zebra”, a band that nobody at Atlantic gave a crap about, but the people loved. Flom ignored the gatekeepers and went straight to the public. And guess what? The public was right. “Zebra” exploded, Flom got promoted, and boom, the kid was in the game.

Flom tells a story about the making of the album.

Doug Morris had cold feet to fund the “Zebra” album. For it to go ahead, Flom got Jack Douglas to agree to produce. However, Douglas was a mess at the time and was not the same Douglas who did the “Aerosmith” records. They had the Record Plant booked and the band was staying there as well, with Douglas booking studio time on Tuesday and arriving Thursday, meanwhile the bills from the Record Plant to Atlantic are piling up.

The budget for the album was a $130K with Douglas getting $55K of that. Morris was not happy as the record was over budget and no tracks had been delivered. The record was then at $230K spent and it was finally at mixing. Douglas then started to hear whale noises in the album tracks. No one else could hear the noises except Douglas. The manager of the Record Plant came into the studio and fired Douglas from the record as Atlantic Records had given him the news how they had pulled the financing for the album. Douglas goes “give me 10 more minutes to finish the album”. The manager goes “you have 10 minutes”. Douglas then barricaded the door so no one could come in and the record got finished. The record came out and it exploded out of the gate.

Then came “Twisted Sister”. They looked ridiculous. Nobody wanted them. Industry snobs laughed. Flom didn’t. He saw 3,000 kids packed into a venue on a Wednesday night screaming every lyric. He brought it to the bosses, and Doug Morris basically told him if he mentioned “Twisted Sister” one more time, he’d be booted. So Flom did what any stubborn SOB would do, he went around him, got them signed anyway, and helped launch one of the most iconic metal acts of the ’80s.

But success doesn’t mean immunity. Flom eventually got caught in the cocaine-fueled dumpster fire that was the ’80s music scene and ended up in rehab. And yet, even in the fog of recovery, the dude came back swinging, signing “Savatage”, “Ratt”, “White Lion”, “Skid Row” and more.

Fast forward: Flom starts Lava Records in 1995. He fakes it ’til he makes it, literally asking around how to run a label while running the label. He signs “Matchbox Twenty” after seeing them bomb a live show but spotting something special in Rob Thomas. He bets on “Kid Rock” when everyone else thought the guy was a joke. No one at MTV wanted to touch him… until they did — and then “Kid Rock” blew the roof off the damn VMAs with “Aerosmith” and “Run-DMC”.

He picked up “Katy Perry” when Columbia was about to drop her. Signed “Lorde” from a SoundCloud link when she had 200 plays and a Facebook page. Oh, and about “Thirty Seconds to Mars”? Everyone told him it was a Jared Leto vanity project. But when he saw Leto turn down a Clint Eastwood film to stay on tour, Flom thought, “That’s more rock and roll than anything I’ve seen in years.”

Every time someone said no, Flom found a way to make it a hell yes. He wasn’t trying to be the tastemaker, he let the fans decide what was great and then fought like hell to bring that to the masses.

Along the way, he helped launch “Hootie & The Blowfish”, “Jewel”, “Simple Plan”, “The Corrs”, “The Blue Man Group”, “Black Veil Brides”, “Greta Van Fleet”, the list reads like a damn Spotify nostalgia playlist.

In short: Jason Flom didn’t just sign bands, he bet on outcasts, longshots, weirdos, and artists with heart. And yeah, he fumbled, got knocked down, got high (a lot), got sober, and kept swinging. The guy helped shape the soundtrack of millions of people’s lives not by chasing trends but by giving a fuck about what actually mattered passion, authenticity, and good fucking music.

Not bad for a dude who was almost a failed wannabe rock star, right?

His mum, who had no degree or background in education, started a school called “The Gateway School”so her son could go to school. He now has a Ph.D. in Psychometrics, the Psychology of Statistics. The Gateway School is now known as the best school for children with difficulties. Try to do what you want to do and try to make the world a better place.

Twisted Sister story.

Randy from Zebra said to Flom that Twisted Sister is the greatest live band ever. So Flom goes to watch them. Twisted Sister is headlining, and Zebra is opening for them. Flom found this odd as Zebra had a record deal and Twisted Sister didn’t. 3000 kids on a Wednesday night for $6 a head.

He was sold as Doug told him that his opinion is secondary compared to the public’s opinion. He walked into Doug’s office the next day and told him he found the next big act. Morris wasn’t interested because TS was considered a joke in the music business. Flom went back to Morris’s office and every time he did, he was told to get out of the office. The debut album “Under The Blade” on Secret was still selling and they were one of the best attended live acts.

At a A&R meeting designed to get the label back in the Top 10 charts as they had a lean year, Morris even mentioned to Flom that if he mentions the name Twisted Sister again, he will never work for Atlantic again. Shortly after that, Flom saw Phil Carson, who was the head of the English division of Atlantic Records and gave him a wealth of material he had amassed on the band, plus a tape of their Secret album. Carson at that point had been in the game for a while, signing acts like AC/DC and Yes amongst other acts. Carson watched TS perform live and signed them.

As for the folder that Flom gave him, it went straight in the bin as Carson had no idea who this young punk was. But synchronicity and coincidence were in play here as TS was opening for an act that Carson went to watch. Morris could have vetoed the whole project, but he still released “You Can’t Stop Rock N Roll” as a favor to Carson, however there was no marketing budget, however Flom was doing a bit of marketing on the side for the band. The record was selling on fumes as Flom puts it.

Morris then called Flom later to tell him he was right and that Atlantic would make a big thing out of this band. Morris had the vision to use Tom Werman to get Marty Callner to direct the videos. I think Dee had a different version here, however it doesn’t really matter in the end, because the album “Stay Hungry” and the clips, “We’re Not Gonna Take It” and “I Wanna Rock” are iconic.

Flom couldn’t understand why they didn’t want to use Werman again for the next record “Come Out And Play” and not long after that it broke up. Dee goes into it in detail in his book and Mark The Animal Mendoza has mentioned his hatred of Werman in various interviews.

Flom at this stage was a victim of the excess of the times and entered rehab. But before he entered rehab, he signed Savatage.

Flom was also involved in getting Ratt to sign to Atlantic Records in 1983 with “Out Of The Cellar” being the first release on Atlantic for them and also White Lion in 1987 for the “Pride” album however they are not mentioned during the podcast.

Once he got out of rehab, he had some projects that didn’t do much and then he signed Skid Row.

An agent brought him Stone Temple Pilots and he signed them. Other acts included Hootie And The Blowfish and Jewel. He told a story of watching Jewel play at a coffee shop with 5 people watching and the coffee machine making cappuccinos and then a few months later, he was back there with 300 people watching and everyone being mesmerized by her.

In 1995, it all evolved into Lava Records, his own label after he turned down an opportunity to resurrect Atco Records. Flom reckons he was set up to fail. He was asking for advice, faking it until he made it.

He had people out there that were brining him good bands. A rep brought him a band called Tabatha’s Secret and he was given four songs. Flom wasn’t convinced. The rep said to listen to 3am again, and again Flom wasn’t convinced. So he want to watch em, and they were terrible, not even in tune and no one was even paying attention to em, but he felt there was something special about Rob Thomas so he signed them. Hollywood Records offered to triple the offer from Lava, however Thomas stayed to Flom. And the debut Matchbox Twenty album went crazy.

Flom and Thomas debated if the first single should be “Real World” or “Long Day”. They settled on “Long Day” and on the strength of that single, the album moved 100K units. Then a radio station in a different city started to play “Push” and the album started to sell like crazy in that city. Flom went back to the band and said this is your next single and the band said no, they wanted “Real World”, but Flom remembered the words of Doug Morris, “what we think is good is nothing compared to what the public thinks”.

And another rep brought him Kid Rock. Kid Rock had three albums before this and all three failed. He was seen as damaged goods. Flom watched him live and they had a meet. Kid Rock said he will deliver two songs to him. Upon hearing the songs, Flom called Kid Rock and said to him, what do you want, Kid Rock said I want $300K sign on and so many percentage points on royalties. Flom said done.

The soundtrack of a lot of people’s lives was possible because of Jasom Flom.

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A to Z of Making It, Classic Songs to Be Discovered, Music, My Stories

The Case For Ozzmosis

I have an issue of Metal Edge from October 1995.

There is a feature with the headline “Ozzy Osbourne’s Cyber Diary – Life In The Studio”. It goes something like this;

February 28, 1995 – Recording in Paris, France with Zakk Wylde on guitar, Geezer Butler on bass, Deen Castronovo on drums and Michael Beinhorn producing.

March 2, 1995 – “Tomorrow”, “See You On The Other Side” and “Old LA Tonight” have all the rhythms and drums done.

March 3, 1995 – “The Whole Worlds Falling Down” and “Can’t Get Up” are added to the list.

March 6, 1995 – “Fallin’ Up”, “I Just Want You”, “Denial”, “Rasputin” and “Mothers Crying” are added to the list.

March 13, 1995 – “My Little Man” and “Back On Earth” have been tracked. After a Saturday night bender, Zakk was locked out of his room and he punched a hole through the door. The hotel has refused to fix it until Zakk leaves. 4 days later, the hotel declares bankruptcy.

March 20, 1995 – All tracking is complete with the songs “Perry Mason”, “Ghost Behind My Eyes”, “Thunder Underground” and “My Jekyll Doesn’t Hide” being the last and the project moves to New York.

March 31, 1995 – Zakk lays down solos for “Back On Earth”.

April 3, 1995 – Beinhorn makes Ozzy sing “See You On The Other Side” 85 times, before he was happy with one take.

April 6, 1995 – Zakk had finished all guitar parts for the songs and solos for 7 songs. New lyrics are written for “Back On Earth”.

April 10, 1995 – The album title of “Ozzmosis” is finally decided.

April 14, 1995 – Lead vocals are finished for “Tomorrow”, “See You On The Other Side”, “I Just Want You”, “Back On Earth” and “Ghost Behind My Eyes”.

April 17, 1995 – They are working on a new song called “Thunder Underground”, written by Geezer and Zakk before they started the backing tracks in Paris.

April 18, 1995 – Ozzy lays down more vocals for “Ghost Behind My Eyes”.

April 19, 1995 – Ozzy lays down vocals for “Denial”. It takes 7 hours to get the take that Beinhorn is happy with.

April 20, 1995 – Ozzy’s throat is inflamed and is asked by the Doctor to get some rest and not sing for a few weeks.

April 28,1995 – Beinhorn gets the band to come back in and redo “Old LA Tonight” and “Back On Earth” as he wasn’t happy with how they turned out earlier. They also redo “The Whole Worlds Falling Down”.

May 2, 1995 – Zakk is laying down more guitar solos and Rick Wakeman is hired to come out in a few weeks to play keyboards.

May 5, 1995 – Zakk finishes up all of his guitar parts.

May 15, 1995 – Rick Wakeman goes from the airport to the studio and he has two days to do all of his parts.

May 17, 1995 – Ozzy is singing “Thunder Underground”.

May 18, 1995 – Ozzy finishes the vocals for “My Jekyll Can’t Hyde”.

May 19, 1995 – Beinhorn made Ozzy sing another vocal for “See You On The Other Side”.

The album recording process is done. The mixing process is next. The final track listing is also decided and “Back On Earth” at this point in time was part of the album’s 11 tracks.

But.

The story of the album and how it came to be goes back even further.

Let’s rewind.

It’s late 1992. Ozzy Osbourne just wrapped his so-called “No More Tours” farewell run. Diagnosed, wrongly, with multiple sclerosis, he tells the world he’s retiring. Done. Finished. Hanging up the mic.

Yeah, right.

Turns out, retirement sucks. Especially when madness is your brand.

Between 1992 and 1995, Ozzy quietly laid the groundwork for what would become “Ozzmosis”. It wasn’t a straight line. It was messy. Chaotic. Weirdly brilliant. He demoed dozens of tracks with a rotating cast of rock royalty. Most of it never officially saw daylight.

Early sessions in a London studio produced what fans now call the “Ozzmosis Demos”, a bootleg CD loaded with unreleased cuts:

1. Feels So Good to Be Bad
2. Denial
3. Too Far Gone
4. Ghost Behind My Eyes
5. Frustrated Yes I’m Hated
6. Dream for Tomorrow
7. Say Yeah Yeah
8. Oh No the Bitch Won’t Go
9. My New Rock and Roll
10. Perry Mason
11. Old L.A. Tonight
12. See You on the Other Side

Five of these tracks, “Perry Mason,” “Old L.A. Tonight,” “Denial,” “Ghost Behind My Eyes,” and “See You on the Other Side”, made it to the official album. The rest? Still lurking in the shadows.

Ozzy collaborated at first with Zakk Wylde. The songs “Perry Mason”, “See You On The Other Side, “Tomorrow”, “Aimee”, “Living With The Enemy” and “Old LA Tonight” are products of these sessions. 

Then came Steve Dudas, Mark Hudson, and even Lemmy Kilmister, who probably wrote more than he ever got credit for.

“Denial” and “Ghost Behind My Eyes” = Ozzy, Hudson, Dudas.

“Feels So Good to Be Bad” = Bluesy glam rock, think T-Rex. Writer unknown.

“Frustrated Yes I’m Hated” = Sabbath-ish, standard E tuning.

“Dream for Tomorrow” = Beatles vibes.

“Oh No the Bitch Won’t Go” = Beach Boys meets Ozzy in a bar fight.

“My New Rock and Roll” = Pure psych trip.

“Say Yeah Yeah” = Tries to be dark, ends up karaoke catchy.

Who wrote what? Hard to say. Fans point fingers at Hudson and Dudas. Dudas likely played guitar, too.

Among the many ghosts of the “Ozzmosis” era, a handful of tracks remain shrouded in mystery: “Fallin’ Up,” “Can’t Get Up,” “Rasputin,” and “Mother’s Crying”.

Whispers in fan circles credit Steve Dudas and Mark Hudson as the writers. But here’s where it gets weird, rumor has it these songs were part of a bigger vision: a full-blown theatrical rock opera called “Rasputin”.

Yep. Ozzy. On stage. In a play.

But the curtains never rose. The project was quietly killed, and instead, “Ozzfest” was born, a louder, messier, more Ozzy version of theater.

The songs?

Shelved. Forgotten. Still sitting in a vault somewhere, waiting for their moment… or maybe waiting to be lost forever.

Producers came and went, Duane Baron and John Purdell started it off, then got replaced by Michael Wagener, who got bumped by Michael Beinhorn. It was a revolving door of creative chaos.

Then came “The Lost Vai” Album, cue mythological music.

Steve Vai came onboard for a full-blown project called “X-Ray”. Only one track, “My Little Man,” survived (Lemmy wrote the lyrics, uncredited).

According to Bob Daisley in his book:

“It wasn’t working. Instead of just being honest with Vai, Sharon told him Sony pulled the plug. Total BS. It was just a move to ditch him quietly. We all saw through it.”

Vai was out. Zakk was back. Daisley got ghosted. Geezer Butler showed up. Business as usual.

Then came the outside hires:

Jack Blades & Tommy Shaw wrote “Voodoo Dancer” and “The Whole World’s Falling Down”.

Taylor Rhodes and Richard Supa wrote “Back On Earth”.

Jim Vallance wrote “Walk on Water,” and “I Just Want You.

Geezer & Zakk wrote “Thunder Underground” and “My Jekyll Doesn’t Hide”.

By early ’95, Ozzy’s misdiagnosis was corrected. He was sober. Still dark, but sharp. Creative. Driven. He wasn’t chasing success, he was clawing back himself.

So when you hear Ozzmosis, remember this:

It’s not just an album.

It’s a resurrection.

Built from fragments.

Forged in chaos.

Sung by a man who couldn’t stop, even when he tried.

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Influenced, Music

Coheed and Cambria – Vaxis III: The Father of Make Believe

Released March 14, 2025.

The third act of the Vaxis saga and Coheed’s eleventh album, “The Father of Make Believe” dives deeper into “The Amory Wars” mythos, but this time, the most intense battles might be internal. Beneath the sci-fi architecture lies a deeply human narrative: loss, identity, illusion, and the relationships that either save us or undo us.

“Yesterday’s Lost”

The album opens with a whisper of heartbreak:

“But should you go before me, I’ll be right behind you.”

It’s not just romance, it’s loyalty shadowed by death. In the narrative, this is Nostrand’s vow to Nia, but it doubles as Claudio’s meditation on mortality and family. A quiet promise that love doesn’t end with life.

“Goodbye, Sunshine”

“I won’t stay mad; we played our parts.”

This is closure without bitterness. A eulogy for what once was, not clung to, not blamed, just released. The band turns loss into liberation.

“Searching for Tomorrow”

“You dance between the true and false / To salvage something, but you learn that you lost it all.”

Musically reminiscent of “In Keeping Secrets Of Silent Earth”, this track explores the illusions we create to survive, until reality breaks through. It’s the sound of waking up too late, discovering solitude was always your only constant.

“The Father of Make Believe”

A masterclass in accessible prog, complex in arrangement, yet melodically inviting.

“I’m the vision that you choose to see… I’m the Father of Make Believe.”

Here, myth and memory blur. The titular Father isn’t a man, he’s an archetype, shaped by need. A projection born from longing, trauma, or manipulation.

He could be Vaxis’s absent savior, a stand-in for authority, or a coping mechanism. He isn’t real, but he’s believed in. That’s what gives him power.

“Meri of Mercy”

A love song in elegy’s clothing.

“When all goes dark / And I can’t see / All my memories lost / I’ll know you’re always with me.”

Meri may be Vaxis’s last tether to clarity, a symbol of what’s worth holding onto when identity disintegrates. This track reclaims connection as sacred in a world built on illusion.

“Blind Side Sonny”

Pop-rock melodies meet gritty distortion, a wolf in candy coating.

This track channels the fury through mob-chant catharsis. Not about justice. About revenge.

“Play the Poet”

“Different language, the words you can’t seem to say…”

This song captures the tragedy of miscommunication, the loop of trying, failing, and eventually giving up.

The poet becomes a performer yelling into a void.

Within the Vaxis story, it may reflect Vaxis losing someone to ideology or despair.

Words fail. The silence wins.

“One Last Miracle”

“A fortune sold on television / Where our truth’s coming from, so damaged beyond recognition.”

A searing critique of media, faith, and false salvation. Hope has been commodified. Truth is no longer broken, it’s unrecognizable. The line between belief and delusion collapses. Still, people keep buying miracles.

“Corner My Confidence”

“You stole the sun / Caught in the flare, we were amateurs…”

This one aches with the pain of failed revolution or broken love. The speaker doesn’t give up, they corner their confidence.

This could be the turning point for Vaxis: forging strength from scars and aligning with those who still believe.

A quiet rebellion begins.

“Someone Who Can”

A shimmering, nostalgic feel, Don Henley vibes via post-apocalyptic heartbreak.

“When the lines of the road vanish in your tracks…”

Abandonment is no longer dramatic, it’s quiet, total. And yet, out of that emptiness comes a demand: for light, for love, for fire. This is rebirth through ruin.

“The Continuum I: Welcome to Forever, Mr. Nobody”

“I plead / Is it so hard to see / A better version of me?”

Shame and stagnation tighten like a noose. The protagonist isn’t begging for forgiveness, just to be seen as more than their past.

In the Vaxis arc, this may be the psychological low point: identity in crisis, hope a fading memory.

“The Continuum II: The Flood”

“Where I once loved / Now pumps cold blood…”

This is post-emotion. Where once was fire, now there’s frost. The flood has wiped the slate, or tried to. A survival mechanism turned into exile from feeling.

“The Continuum III: Tethered Together”

“We’ll all sing together / Tethered forever…”

The emotional payoff. After trauma and betrayal, comes harmony, not as fantasy, but as chosen solidarity. This could be the rebel choir. The fractured finally uniting. It’s the album’s true heartbeat.

“The Continuum IV: So It Goes”

“Please, somebody open this lock / My mind is breaking apart…”

The final collapse, or the final confession. The speaker begs for release from the cage of their own mind. Whether this is Vaxis or someone else, it’s a moment where the veil between internal and external horror is paper-thin.

We’re left not with closure, but a question:

Can the light escape the dark?

“Vaxis III” is more than a concept album. It’s a study in duality, illusion vs reality, connection vs fracture, myth vs memory. And while it expands the “Amory Wars” universe, it also holds a mirror to our own: asking how we survive when the truths we built our lives on collapse.

It’s not just a story, it’s a reckoning.

P.S.

I initially held off on writing this review, hoping to dive deeper once the deluxe edition arrived, particularly to expand on the narrative elements through the included story materials. But after several delays, I decided the album itself deserved its own reflection. The review is, shaped by the lyrics, the music, and the emotional arc they deliver to me on their own terms.

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Music, My Stories

Live Review: Monolith Festival – Hordern Pavilion, Sydney

Featuring: Leprous, Periphery, Coheed and Cambria

Date: 10 November 2024

I’ve had this post for a while in various drafts and thought it was time to finish it.

The “Monolith Festival” returned to Sydney with a stacked progressive lineup and a reputation for delivering complexity, emotion, and sheer sonic weight.

Held at the iconic Hordern Pavilion, the festival promised more than just performances, it offered artist workshops, communal spaces, and a cultural showcase for fans of progressive rock and metal. But as these things go, time got away from me.

Unfortunately, I missed the first two acts and all of the artist workshops, an all-too-common casualty of Sydney traffic and the general logistics of festival life.

That said, there was still plenty to take in outside the main stage. Within the fenced-off, ticket-holder-only zone, a decent selection of food trucks (Woodfire Pizza and Turkish Gozleme) offered solid sustenance, while the Byron Bay Brewery bar kept spirits high.

Traditional venue options inside were also available, but the atmosphere outside had that kind of low-key camaraderie that festivals like this are great at cultivating.

Leprous

My first time seeing Leprous live.

They landed on my radar thanks to a Spotify algorithm about eight years ago, and since then, they’ve remained a steady presence in my playlists. “The Congregation” (2015) is still my go-to from their discography; cold, mathematical, yet deeply emotive.

Onstage, Leprous radiated a quiet confidence. The Norwegian five-piece walked the tightrope between technical precision and atmospheric build, and for a band that thrives on restraint, they commanded the stage without excess.

Frontman Einar Solberg’s falsetto soared through the room with eerie control, making converts out of any first-timers.

Songs like “The Price” and “Slave” unfolded like emotional equations, each section calculated but still cutting deep. Their set was perhaps the most introspective of the night, and it worked.

Periphery

Cue chaos.

Pop music blares over the speakers until it’s suddenly cut off by the outro to “Crush.”

That abrupt tonal shift was the perfect entry into Periphery’s calculated aggression.

The band launched into “Wildfire,” a spiraling, multi-sectioned assault from their latest album “Periphery V: Djent Is Not A Genre” (2023).

Phones lit the air like tiny lighthouses, struggling to anchor anyone in the seas of down-tuned guitars, polyrhythms, and seizure-inducing strobes.

Aussie drummer David Parkes filled in admirably for Matt Halpern, who stayed home for the birth of his second child. Parkes handled the intricate time signatures and unpredictable shifts with mechanical precision.

The setlist leaned heavily on “P:V”, with highlights like “Atropos”, a personal favorite, offering moments of clarity amidst the chaos. That track’s clean sections created a stark contrast that only made the heavy parts hit harder.

“Reptile,” a 16-minute behemoth from “Periphery IV: Hail Stan”(2019), raised some eyebrows. In a short set window, it was a bold move, equal parts indulgent and impressive. But if you were there for the musicianship, it was a masterclass.

They closed with crowd-pleasers “Marigold” and “Blood Eagle,” with the latter turning the pit into a blur of limbs and hair.

From the last time I saw them at The Annandale Hotel in 2013, the band has evolved. The absence of bassist Nolly Getgood (who stepped away in 2017) hasn’t dulled their low end, but it has reshaped the balance. They’re leaner now—five members, three guitars, all in.

Coheed and Cambria

A concept band doing a concept album at a concept festival. Perfect match.

Coheed delivered “Good Apollo, I’m Burning Star IV, Volume One: From Fear Through the Eyes of Madness” (2005) in full. No cut corners, no medleys. Just front-to-back storytelling, as dense and labyrinthine as their discography demands.

There’s something almost theatrical about Claudio Sanchez’s vocals, part prog-opera, part comic book epic. Whether it was the haunting “Ten Speed (Of God’s Blood and Burial)” or the melancholic “Wake Up,” the band navigated the album’s twists with unwavering energy.

“The Willing Well” suite; four interlinked songs running over 20 minutes total; was ambitious and, frankly, kind of mesmerizing.

But let’s be honest: “Welcome Home” was the showstopper.

That intro riff?

Unstoppable.

The crowd knew it, and the band leaned into the moment like it was their final form.

After the main set, Coheed returned with a two-song encore: the pop-punk tinted “A Favor House Atlantic” and the anthemic “In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3.”

Everyone screamed the final chorus like they were shouting back at their teenage selves.

Final Thoughts

I didn’t catch everything, but what I did see was worth the trip. Each band brought a different flavour of “monolithic”; Leprous with their glacial precision, Periphery with their controlled chaos, and Coheed with their galactic storytelling.

Monolith Festival isn’t just about music, it’s about endurance, narrative, and the sublime power of sound pushed to its technical limits.

Would I go again? In a heartbeat.

But next time… I’m arriving early. And I’m not missing those damn workshops.

\::/

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