Tag Archives: Hard Rock

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

Albums That Tried to Fly Higher in 2025 and Still Might

Let’s kick off the end-of-year rundown with the albums we all circled on the calendar, the ones we expected to split the sky wide open. They landed, they’re solid, but they didn’t quite sling me into that astral orbit Ozzy hit the moment he launched into “Over the Mountain.” Not yet, anyway.

And that’s the thing: not yet is the keyword here. Decades of listening have taught me that records I initially filed under pretty good often grow teeth, soul, and permanence with time. Music is a long game. Context matters.

Where you are in life matters.

Your mood matters.

The hours you carve out for real, undistracted listening matter.

Even the simple ritual of buying the record, holding it, cracking it open, letting the artwork seep into you, creates a connection that streaming never will.

So these albums might not have lifted me off the ground this year, but that doesn’t mean they won’t catch a thermal down the line and carry me somewhere I didn’t expect. That’s the beauty of listening: the records stay the same, but we don’t.

And sometimes“expected more” is just another way of saying, “we still believe you’ve got greatness in you.”

Dream Theater — Parasomnia (USA)

I’ve got the “Parasomnia” graphic novel landing in January or February, tickets locked for the Sydney show, mid-summer, the sweet spot, and the entire “Quarantième: Live à Paris” arsenal on its way: vinyl, CD, Blu-ray, the full ritual package.

Because when a band hits you at the exact right moment, it brands itself into your timeline.

For me, it was the Australian summer of ’92 going into ’93. “Pull Me Under” came through the speakers and that was it, no hesitation, no slow burn. I went all in. Built a cathedral out of riffs and odd time signatures. My name ended up in the fan-funded first edition of “Lifting Shadows”, Rich Wilson’s biography. A tiny line in a thick book, but it felt like a stamp in a passport to another world.

And decades later, nothing’s changed. I’m still a first-day buyer. Still hitting preorder like it’s muscle memory.

So when I talk about end-of-year lists and expectations and albums that didn’t quite hit escape velocity?

Dream Theater sits outside that framework entirely.

They don’t compete.

They just arrive.

But this time around, they are here. In this list.

Portnoy’s comeback was supposed to be a seismic event. And in flashes, it is.

The drumming feels unshackled again, elastic, mischievous, a little dangerous. Not as robotic. It drags the band into thrilling asymmetry, reminding you how paranoid and alive they used to sound.

But “Parasomnia” is also the sound of five musicians renegotiating gravity.

The interplay is extraordinary in isolated passages, keyboard spirals that feel like lucid-dream glitches, Petrucci lines that cut like tungsten wire, Myung’s bass grumbling in the basement like the subconscious trying to surface. The problem? It never fully resolves into a thesis.

The album aims for the labyrinthine but often settles for the technically inevitable.

There’s brilliance in the corners, moments where the band feels like they’re discovering oxygen again, but the overarching architecture wavers. As if the band knows what they’re capable of but is too aware of the weight of its own past.

“Night Terrors” is Dream Theater doing what only they can do, classic, confident, instantly recognisable.

It’s their version of “The Force Awakens”: the familiar returned, polished, tightened, welcomed with open arms because it remembers what made you fall in love in the first place.

“A Broken Man” does exactly what the title hints at. It’s chaos in song form, fractured, jagged, unsettled, but that’s the point. It feels like watching a mind splinter and reassemble in real time.

But the real revelation is “Bend The Clock.” This is where they swerve into pop-rock territory without surrendering a single strand of their progressive DNA. It’s melodic without being soft, intricate without being indulgent. It sits in that magical space between “Images and Words” and “Metropolis Pt. 2”, the era when they were discovering how far they could stretch melody without losing muscle.

It’s the song that shouldn’t work, yet somehow works better than everything around it.

Finally, “The Shadow Man” feels like an intentional glance over the shoulder, threads of their past woven straight into the present. Little callbacks, little winks, especially to “Metropolis Pt. 2”.

Not imitation, not nostalgia for its own sake, but echoes. Fragments. Signals for the listeners who’ve walked the whole journey with them.

Ghost — Skeletá (Sweden)

Ghost’s strength has always been mythmaking: cathedral pop coated in metallic lacquer.

“Skeletá” tries to dismantle that mythology. It replaces spectacle with confession, shadow-play with bare lighting. And the shift is courageous, Tobias Forge leans into vulnerability with melodies that float instead of march.

The production is the most skeletal (pun intended) the band has ever embraced, airier arrangements, fewer layers, more emotional oxygen.

But the truth is… Ghost’s emotional palette is still evolving. The introspective songs tremble with intention, but some of them lack the gravitational force of their grander works. It’s as though Tobias exposed his emotions and then wasn’t sure how far to go.

There’s a moment in “Peacefield” where everything clicks, and you don’t even know why. You’re humming along, lost in that syrupy Ghost atmosphere, when the chorus rises up and suddenly you’re twelve again, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the world to make sense.

And it never does, but music sometimes gets close.

That lift, that melodic climb, isn’t random. It’s a shadow of one of the most immortal hooks in rock history: the chorus architecture of Journey’s “Separate Ways.”

Not the notes. Not the phrasing. The geometry.

The emotional staircase.

Ghost didn’t steal the melody; they stole the feeling of inevitability. That upward lunge that says here it comes, that quiet promise that something bigger is right around the corner. Journey nailed it for the MTV generation. Ghost resurrected it for a world that spends more time doomscrolling than dreaming.

This is Tobias Forge at his sly, cathedral-rock best. The man understands nostalgia the way a chess grandmaster understands sacrifice: you don’t go for the queen, you take the pawn that exposes the whole board. He threads the spirit of an arena classic into a modern occult rock hymn and makes it feel like it always belonged there.

The past isn’t something you repeat. It’s something you compost.

Break it down, pull out the nutrients, grow something new from the rot of yesterday’s brilliance.

That’s Ghost. They don’t do retro; they do recombinant DNA. They turn AOR’s heroic optimism inside-out and build a darker, more cinematic version that still fills the lungs. “Peacefield” is what happens when you choose to honor the architecture instead of the wallpaper.

And the crazy part? Most people never notice.

They just feel it.

And, this is how music is supposed to feel.

Crazy Lixx — Thrill of the Bite (Sweden)

Crazy Lixx have never pretended to be philosophers, they’re the neon under the streetlights, the lipstick smear on the mirror, the chorus that hits like cheap perfume and bad decisions.

And “Thrill of the Bite” nails that… in theory.

The opening tracks roar with swagger, chrome-plated riffs, big-room snares, gang vocals like a bar fight in harmony. It’s indulgent, infectious, hedonistic.

Start with “Who Said Rock And Roll Is Dead.”

On the surface, it’s all swagger and sunlight, the kind of melodic strut that makes you want to roll the windows down even if you’re parked in your driveway.

But underneath?

There’s a harder lesson stitched into the chords: you find your real strength when the world doubts you the most.

Then the needle hits “Call Of The Wild,” and I am transported, suddenly I am back in that era when guitar intros were battle standards, not polite invitations.

The pulse echoes the frantic edge of a certain classic from the old guard, the kind that gallops more than it walks. “Back In The Village” comes to mind.

It’s not imitation. It’s continuity.

And then there’s “Recipe For Revolution.”

It’s the rare breed that marries muscle and melody without compromising either.

Here’s the inconvenient truth:

Rock didn’t vanish. The spotlight did.

And that’s what this band represents.

The idea that you don’t need to reinvent the wheel; you just need to keep it spinning long enough for people to remember why it mattered.

But halfway through the album, the sugar-rush becomes predictable.

You start hearing the formula:

anthem → pre-chorus lift → high-gloss chorus → two-step solo.

Regardless, Rock and Roll never died.

It simply waited for musicians stubborn enough, hungry enough, to prove that some fires burn brighter when everything around them goes dark.

Volbeat — God Of Angels Trust (Denmark)

Volbeat hit a strange point in their career, successful enough to have a signature, but boxed in by that same signature.

“God Of Angels Trust” is that tension laid bare.

The album is muscular and melodic in classic Volbeat fashion: sharp staccato riffs, rockabilly undertones, Michael Poulsen’s unmistakable baritone. But rather than reinvent, the band refines, and not always to their advantage.

There are moments where the old hunger tears through:

Tracks where the riffs feel serrated, the chorus detonates on impact, and Poulsen sounds like he’s exorcising demons rather than fronting them. But the album also cycles through familiar rhythmic patterns and predictable melodic arcs.

You can feel two creative instincts wrestling:

The desire to evolve, and the fear of losing the audience.

That tension produces a solid album, professional, powerful, but not the evolutionary leap the band hinted at.

It’s a strong record that hits hard, but too often in familiar ways.

Coheed and Cambria — The Father Of Make Believe (USA)

Coheed’s strength is in constructing universes, cathedral-sized concept arcs, operatic vocal lines, and prog structures folded like origami.

“The Father Of Make Believe” embraces that identity wholeheartedly.

The albumscape is full of layered guitars, ascending melodic leaps, and time signatures that fold back onto themselves like double-helix storytelling. The problem isn’t execution, it’s predictability.

You’ve heard this version of Coheed before. Maybe not these exact songs, but this exact shape.

It feels like the band is protecting their mythos rather than challenging it.

The choruses soar, but you anticipated the exact height.

The narrative threads tie together, but you can trace the stitching from miles away.

There’s joy in hearing masters at work, but the thrill of discovery, so central to Coheed’s best moments, is muted here. Fans will feast, but the album doesn’t expand the canon in the way its title promises.

A solid, expertly crafted chapter, but not the universe-shaking installment it hints at.

Stand out tracks are “The Father Of Make Believe”, “One Last Miracle” and “The Continuum”.

And then Coheed and Cambria reissued the album and they expanded the universe.

The “New Entities Edition” feels less like a deluxe package and more like a door cracking open to reveal the machinery of The Keywork still humming behind the walls.

What this edition does so well is deepen the idea that the Keywork isn’t a symbol, it’s an ecosystem. A cosmic lattice powered by the entities living inside it, each one acting like a living conduit proving that its energy isn’t mystical so much as engineered.

It’s not just another version of the album.

It’s another chapter.

Bonfire — Higher Ground (Germany)

The Bonfire that lit the fuse for me isn’t the Bonfire onstage today. Lineups shift, decades move, and the chemistry that once defined a band becomes something more like a memory than a current. Hans Ziller stands as the last original flame, the lone architect holding the blueprint while the rest of the crew has turned to history.

And yet.

I still look forward to every new release.

What keeps me coming back isn’t nostalgia. It’s the fascination of watching a legacy evolve in real time. The name stays the same, the spirit mutates, and every album becomes another chapter in a story that refuses to end just because the cast has changed. In a way, that’s its own kind of resilience, proof that sometimes the fire keeps burning simply because someone refuses to let it go out.

Bonfire are lifers, blue-collar craftsmen of European hard rock.

Their instincts are impeccable: guitar tones dialled with precision, vocal harmonies that arc cleanly, choruses designed to land on the first listen.

“Higher Ground” is exactly that: competent, energetic, polished.

But the album rarely veers from the expected pathways. There’s a comforting reliability to it, but also a ceiling.

The production is clean but safe. The performances are strong but rarely transcendent. You keep waiting for the moment the band takes a risk, swings wide, or throws you a melodic curveball, but the album opts for stability.

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

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We Sacrificed Our Lives for Rock and Roll (Jake E. Lee Edition)

Jake E. Lee should’ve been a household name.

He wrote the riffs that kept Ozzy Osbourne relevant in the mid-’80s, carved lightning out of mahogany, and made the guitar sing like a wounded animal trying to escape the zoo. Then he was gone.

Fired.

Forgotten.

No explanation. No headlines. Just silence.

And yet, he never stopped playing.
Because the lifers never do.

We came from that generation that thought music could save us. We weren’t trying to become content creators, we were trying to become gods. The Beatles had turned black-and-white lives into Technicolor, and by the time Sabbath, Zeppelin and Van Halen hit, we wanted to plug in and join the revolution.

Our parents told us to get degrees. We bought Marshalls instead.
They told us to settle down. We chose distortion.

Back then, the sound wasn’t an accessory, it was oxygen. Every riff was a rebellion, every rehearsal a prayer. We learned how to solder cables before we learned how to pay bills. We thought tone could change the world.

Jake understood that.

He was too good for compromise, too strange for the machine. When he left the limelight, everyone thought he’d vanished, but he’d just retreated to the desert, still playing, still writing, still chasing the ghost of the perfect note.

After Ozzy, Jake E. Lee should have ruled the world. He formed Badlands, and for a moment, it felt like redemption.

It wasn’t corporate. It wasn’t polished. It was alive, beautiful, human.

Ray Gillen could sing like the gods were tearing open the sky. Jake’s tone was molten iron, all feel, no filter. They had the songs, the chemistry, the hunger.

And then it imploded. Not because of drugs, or label politics, or creative differences, although they did have disagreements which carried over into the live show, but because real life crashed the party.

Those albums will never be reissued on CD. The reasons are complicated, contested, and not mine to litigate, but the silence around them is deliberate.

Atlantic Records buried the catalog. The albums vanished from stores, from streaming, from history. A digital scar where greatness once lived.

And that’s the ruinous truth about rock and roll: it’s not built to last. It’s built to burn.

For every band that becomes immortal, a hundred vanish not because they weren’t good enough, but because they flew too close to something human, desire, tragedy, ego, love, disease.

We talk about “legacy” like it’s something we can engineer. But the universe doesn’t care how good your solo is. There are no guarantees. No justice. No moral equilibrium that balances out the riffs.

Sometimes the guy who gave his life to the craft ends up selling insurance. Sometimes the band that could’ve changed everything gets wiped from the archives because life doesn’t want to play fair.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe rock and roll was never about permanence, maybe it was about risk. The willingness to live without a safety net. The courage to make something beautiful in a world that erases beauty every day.

Jake E. Lee is still out there, still playing, still alive, still searching for a sound no one can algorithmically predict. Badlands may be gone, but that’s what makes them holy. You can’t stream them, you can only remember them, or, if you were lucky enough, you can feel the ghost of their frequencies vibrating somewhere under your ribs. Like YouTube. Which has basically the history of music on its side.

So yeah, the world forgot. The label buried the tapes. But the lifers remember. Because some of us didn’t just listen to the music. We were the music.

We didn’t lose the dream.
We lived it, scars, silence, and all.

Meanwhile, the world changed.
MTV collapsed. Algorithms replaced A&R men. Guitar solos went out of fashion. The kids traded fretboards for touchscreens. And the rest of us, the ones who built our lives around the volume knob, we watched the dream shrink until it fit in a playlist.

But here’s the thing: the fire never dies.

A few solo albums here and there and Jake came back decades later with Red Dragon Cartel, not to reclaim a throne, but to prove the riff still mattered. It wasn’t nostalgia; it was a declaration of faith. Every note said, I’m still here. I never stopped believing in the noise.

And that’s us too, the forgotten believers. We rent apartments instead of owning homes. We have tinnitus instead of retirement plans. We can’t remember passwords, but we can tell you the exact pickup configuration Randy Rhoads used on “Crazy Train.”

We’re not failures. We’re pilgrims who never found the promised land but kept walking anyway.

When Jake bends a note, it’s not just music, it’s defiance. It’s the sound of every dreamer who refused to clock in, every musician who still hauls a 4×12 cab into a bar for gas money and applause from thirty people who actually listen.

We sacrificed our lives for rock and roll. And if you have to ask why, you’ll never understand.

Because the show, that fleeting, electric communion between the amp and the crowd, that was the home we were looking for all along.
And when the lights go down and the first chord hits, everything that never worked out suddenly makes sense.

We didn’t miss out on life. We lived it louder.

The tragedy of Badlands isn’t ancient history, it’s prophecy. Every artist today lives on the same knife’s edge. One bad headline, one algorithmic shadow-ban, one rumor whispered into the right inbox, and you’re erased. Your catalog disappears, your legacy gets rewritten by people who never even heard your work. We don’t burn on stage anymore; we burn in silence, beneath the scroll.

But here’s what separates the lifers from the tourists: the lifers keep playing.

They know the system’s rigged. They know the world rewards the shallow and forgets the sincere. And they do it anyway.

Because somewhere inside the noise, the heartbreak, the lost royalties, there’s still that kid who picked up a guitar and thought sound could save the world.

That’s who Jake E. Lee still is. That’s who we are. We keep writing riffs in an era that doesn’t believe in permanence, because the truth was never meant to be preserved, only felt.

In a digital wasteland of content and convenience, the act of creation itself is rebellion.

And rebellion, like rock and roll, doesn’t die, it just goes underground and waits for the faithful to find it again.

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Music, My Stories, Treating Fans Like Shit

When the Party Turns into a Legacy: Bon Jovi, “We Got It Going On,” and the Forever Dilemma

Bon Jovi are back in the headlines again.

The “Forever” Tour.

The big announcement.

And, as always, the internet did what it does best, split down the middle.

Half the fans were ecstatic: “They’re back! Jon’s finally bringing the band around again.”

The other half were grimacing at the live clips, whispering the kind of thing you never want to say about your heroes: maybe the forever part should’ve ended a while ago.

That’s the heartbreak of watching icons age in public. We want the fire without the fallibility, the 1986 Bon Jovi frozen in amber, talkbox wailing, hair on fire, fists in the air, not the version that’s grown reflective, too polished, and painfully human.

But for me, this whole “Forever”discussion takes me back to 2007.

To “Lost Highway”.

I was a diehard then. Still am, I guess. The kind of fan who buys the record before hearing a note, because “Slippery When Wet”, “New Jersey”, and “Keep the Faith” were practically scripture. So when the band leaned into country-rock, I wanted to believe in it. But you could feel the calculation. You could feel the intention.

“Who Says You Can’t Go Home” worked because it wasn’t supposed to. It was an accident, a crossover that caught fire because it felt genuine. Then Jon, the businessman, doubled down. And when you chase authenticity, you lose it.

But buried under the Nashville polish was one song that didn’t care about charts or categories.

“We Got It Going On.”

“Is there anybody out there looking for a party? Yeah!!
Shake your money maker, baby, smoke it if you got it.”

That opening riff hits like swamp water and motor oil, sleazy, sexual, bluesy. Sambora’s talkbox returns like a ghost, resurrected not for nostalgia but for sheer noise. You can almost see the lights dim, the crowd swell, the camera pan across faces that just want to feel something again.

This song wasn’t written for critics. It was written for the night, for bodies pressed together, beer in the air, the scream that shakes the workweek loose.

“We Got It Goin’ On
We’ll be banging and singing just like the Rolling Stones.”

That line nails it. The nod to the Stones, the eternal road dogs, still out there rattling bones decades later.

And the truth is, I’ve left concerts sore, half-deaf, heart syncing with the subwoofers. That’s what great live music does: it inhabits you. You don’t walk out the same.

It’s all there, the “Ah ha ha” chant, the “ticket to kick it” call to arms, the invitation to ditch your suburban restraint.

“Everybody’s getting down, we’re getting down to business
Insane, freak train, you don’t wanna miss this.”

That’s Primal Scream energy. Nikki Sixx said it best:

“Primal scream and shout, let that mother out.”

That’s what “We Got It Going On” captures, not country, not crossover, but catharsis.

And it kills me that it never became a setlist regular. It tore through “Live at Madison Square Garden” and proved it belonged beside their classics.

But now, watching the new “Forever” performances, I can’t help but think about that title.

Because say what you want about the voice, the image, the years, when that talkbox hits and the crowd still roars, for a few minutes at least, they really do got it going on.

Bon Jovi’s strength was that mix of optimism and blue-collar defiance that said, we’re gonna shake up your soul, we’re gonna rattle your bones.

The challenge now isn’t pitch or range, it’s rediscovering the part of themselves that still wants to party like it’s dangerous again.

With presales kicking off October 27–28 and general sales slated for October 31, fans were ready.

Hungry. Hopeful.

But within hours, that excitement curdled into outrage.

Across X (Twitter) and fan forums, the stories were brutal: hours-long virtual queues, endless errors, “these tickets are no longer available” messages that mocked you after two hours of waiting.

One fan said they spent their entire last day of vacation fighting Ticketmaster’s glitch-riddled system.

Another logged in early for presale, only to find seats instantly gone, calling it “a joke” where real fans lose to bots every time.

Queues hit 160,000 people for UK shows like Wembley.

Some fans swore the platform was holding tickets back to manufacture demand. Others pointed to instant resales, the same seats appearing online minutes later, inflated beyond belief.

And they weren’t exaggerating. Prices hit $900 for single seats.
VIP “Legendary” packages, front row, tote bag, lanyard, mocked for charging hundreds extra for souvenirs no one asked for.

One fan summed it up perfectly:

“It’s not the Forever Tour because of Bon Jovi’s career — it’s because we’ll be paying it off forever.”

That’s the reality of fandom in 2025. We want connection, not corporate friction.

We crave the “Livin’ on a Prayer” moment, but we get login errors and resale markups instead.

Some fans did score tickets, celebrating in disbelief, hoping maybe, just maybe, Richie Sambora will reappear and make it all feel whole again.

But the dominant emotion across social media isn’t excitement. It’s exhaustion.

This is the paradox of legacy. When the dream outlives the danger, the machine takes over.

Bon Jovi were always about inclusion. Blue jeans, big choruses, stadium-wide singalongs. They weren’t supposed to be exclusive.

But the modern ticketing system turned “forever” into a commodity, a limited edition for those who can afford it.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy of this era: we can still sing along, but we can’t always get in the door.

Bon Jovi built a career on songs that made ordinary people feel invincible.

Now, the fight is to make those people feel included again.

Because the legacy doesn’t live in the hits, or the sales, or the streaming stats.

It lives in the noise, the sweat, the singalong, the place where “We Got It Going On” still means something.

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Classic Songs to Be Discovered, Music

Marcie Free’s Hidden Fire: The Soul Behind Ready to Strike

It’s 1985.

The Sunset Strip is still a religion, and every kid with a can of Aqua Net thinks they’re destined for MTV.

Out of the chaos comes King Kobra’s debut “Ready to Strike”.

Led by guitarists David Michael-Philips & Mick Sweda.

David Michael‑Philips briefly joined Keel before being recruited by drummer Carmine Appice for King Kobra in 1984. Mick Sweda had been doing East Coast cover/punk stuff, moved to L.A., and was also tapped by Appice for Kobra.

After Kobra he co-founded Bulletboys with Marq Torien.

Johnny Rod held the low end here and after King Kobra he joined W.A.S.P., appearing on “Inside the Electric Circus”, “Live…in the Raw”, “The Headless Children”.

The season veteran here was drummer Carmine Appice, coming from Vanilla Fudge, Rod Stewart, Ozzy Osborne and the architect behind King Kobra. Post-Kobra he went on to other projects (including Blue Murder with John Sykes).

And a singer named Mark Free, the kind of vocalist who could level you with a single held note.

And now, that voice is gone. Marcie Free (Mark transitioned in the 90s), passed away. No reasons given. Maybe there doesn’t need to be one. Sometimes the world just loses a frequency.

Listen to “Ready to Strike” today and tell me you don’t feel it. That impossible range. That clean, surgical tone cutting through Spencer Proffer’s slightly overcompressed mix.

“Ready To Strike”

Co-written by the band, Proffer, and the mysterious H. Banger, a name that appears on six tracks and nowhere else. Ever. Believed to be a collective pseudonym representing members of Kick Axe, whose fingerprints are all over the Pasha Records era.

“Up here on this tightrope / Tryin’ not to fall / The spotlight is on me tonight / I want to have it all.”

It’s a metaphor for the rock life, hunger, exposure, the weight of wanting everything. The guitars duel, the drums explode, and Free prowls through the mix like a panther who’s just discovered the cage door’s open.

“Hunger”

Written by Kick Axe and Proffer.

“When I see what I want, I’m gonna take it / If it’s against some law, you can bet I’m gonna break it.”

The tempo drops, the groove thickens. Free’s voice walks the line between desire and desperation, the sound of ambition burning too hot to contain.

“Shadow Rider”

“Midnight is my time / I’m the Shadow Rider / I come from the other side.”

It’s the nocturnal anthem, the loner archetype on a chrome horse, riding between light and dark.

“I’ll stand beside you and take the blows” isn’t just a lyric; it’s a code of honor. The song rumbles like an engine idling in a back alley.

“Shake Up”

“You grew up on rock ’n’ roll / So why deny it now?”

This is the youth call, the defiant reminder that rock isn’t fashion, it’s DNA. It’s a fist-in-the-air track, bright and rallying. The message is simple: don’t outgrow what saved you.

“Attention”

“You just want attention, baby, that’s all.”

A riff built for smoke machines and strip lights. But listen closer, there’s bite in Free’s delivery. Sarcasm, empathy, truth. It’s a mirror held up to a scene that fed on validation. Every artist in L.A. wanted the same thing: to be seen, to be loved, to matter.

“Breakin’ Out”

“I’m breakin’ out, gonna make my stand…”

The liberation song, before anyone knew how literal it would become. Appice’s drums hit like battering rams. Free’s vocal swings from defiance to freedom, warrior to wounded bird.

“Tough Guys”

“Tough guys never cry…”

The façade song. What sounds like macho posturing becomes, in Free’s phrasing, heartbreak. The mask slips. The world tells men not to feel; what does it cost to fake it.

“Dancing With Desire”

“I’m losing control tonight…”

The silk thread between danger and devotion. The groove is sleek, the vocal magnetic. Desire becomes identity, the moment you stop pretending and start existing.

“Second Thoughts”

“I had it all planned, then I changed my mind…”

It’s the sound of someone questioning the script.

Behind the arena sheen, it’s a confession: the fear of choosing the wrong version of yourself. Free sings like someone tearing up a contract with fate.

“Piece of the Rock”

“We all want a piece of the rock…”

The closer. It’s ambition reimagined as reckoning. You can hear the disillusionment under the triumph, the realization that success and happiness rarely share the same stage. It ends not in celebration, but transcendence.

King Kobra never quite made it to the top. The songs were there, the image marketable, the talent undeniable. But the breaks never came. One more album, and the curtain fell.

Yet “Ready to Strike” remains, a document of promise, power, and prophecy. The record of a voice that burned too bright to be ordinary.

Mark Free sang like someone fighting for air. Marcie Free lived like someone who finally found it.

RIP.

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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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A to Z of Making It, Influenced, Music

Joel Hoekstra on The Jay Jay French Connection Podcast (Sept 19, 2023)

Steve Lukather has nothing but the highest praise for Hoekstra, and it’s easy to see why.

Born in Iowa City, Joel moved to Chicago as a kid, then later spent time in L.A., working at Cherokee Studios in 1991 and 1992. By that time, legendary producers Tom Werman and Geoff Workman had already moved on, but their legacy lingered.

Hoekstra studied at the Musicians Institute (GIT) in L.A., though he had a head start, his local teacher had already introduced him to the curriculum before he even arrived. On day one, he found himself among 500 other guitarists in the main hall, an intimidating experience.

Growing up with classically trained parents, he learned to read music early on, though he admits it’s only occasionally useful in his current work. It did, however, come in handy when he landed “Rock of Ages” and other theater gigs.

Unlike many of his peers, the ’80s shred scene didn’t have a huge impact on him, he was too young for it to be a major influence.

He did, however, run in circles with some serious musicians, including drummer Scott Coogan, guitarist Pete Thorn (well-known for gear demos), and Joy Basou (who found success in pop music, working with artists like Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey).

When asked about his guitar heroes, Hoekstra named Steve Morse (High Tension Wires), Steve Vai (Passion and Warfare), and Joe Satriani (Flying in a Blue Dream, Surfing With the Alien).

While Eric Clapton wasn’t a big influence, he admired Jimmy Page for his rhythmic licks, Jeff Beck for, well, everything, and Jimi Hendrix for his showmanship. He also loved everything “Rush” did, as well as Trevor Rabin’s “Yes” era, he still follows Rabin’s work, including his latest album “Rio”.

Jay Jay French mentioned for his generation, Johnny Winter and Alvin Lee were the Yngwie Malmsteens of their time.

Over the years, Hoekstra transitioned from playing Floyd Rose-equipped Jacksons and Kramers to a Fender Telecaster, then a Gibson SG, before settling on a Gibson Les Paul in 2004. He admitted that while playing a Les Paul means sacrificing about 10% of your technique, each note is worth it. Initially, he avoided Les Pauls because he’d heard they had tuning issues.

As a solo artist, Hoekstra has released three instrumental albums covering various styles. However, when he shifted into hard rock and heavy metal, fans wanted more of that sound.

Instead of branding it as a solo project, he launched “Joel Hoekstra’s 13”, where he writes all the music and lyrics while bringing in powerhouse rock musicians to jam with him. At the time of the interview he was onto his third release with “JH13”, along with “Eagle Flight” from Revolution Saints.

Speaking of collaborations, Hoekstra has another project called “Iconic”, featuring Michael Sweet (guitar), Marco Mendoza (bass), Tommy Aldridge (drums), and Nathan James (vocals). At the time of the interview, new releases from Iconic and Revolution Saints are on the way.

Since then, Revolution Saints dropped “Against The Winds” in 2024 however Iconic hasn’t been released yet.

As for Whitesnake, the future remains uncertain. Everything depends on David Coverdale, with the band currently in a holding pattern. Their European tour had a few canceled dates, and the U.S. tour was ultimately called off due to Coverdale’s sinus infection.

If you like to hear a good story, check out Joel Hoekstra.

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A to Z of Making It, Music, My Stories

Is Rock Really Dead? Let’s Talk About It.

So, my Release Day playlist on Spotify one week was packed with tracks like “Who Said Rock N Roll Is Dead” by Crazy Lixx, “Rock N Roll Survivors” by Bonfire, and “Gods Of Rock N Roll” by Billy Morrison, Ozzy Osbourne, and Steve Stevens.

Then the next week it had “Rock And Roll Party Cowboy” from The Darkness. And my train of thought moves to “Rock And Roll Deserves To Die”, one of my favorite songs from em.

Naturally, it got me thinking about the ever-recurring debate:

Is rock actually dead?

Lenny Kravitz released a song titled “Rock and Roll Is Dead” on his 1995 album “Circus”, a cynical take on the state of rock music at the time.

Marilyn Manson, has a song “Rock Is Dead” from the 1998 album “Mechanical Animals” which is critical of the commercialization and his perceived decline of rock’s rebellious spirit.

L.A. Guns released a song titled “Rock and Roll Is Dead” on their 2005 album “Tales from the Strip”, about the genre’s struggles in the modern era.

Even The Doors’ had a track “Rock Is Dead” (recorded in 1969, released posthumously).

Gene Simmons is the guy most often quoted on this. In a 2022 statement, he told “Metal Hammer”, “I stand by my words, rock is dead and the fans killed it,” blaming file-sharing and the decline of record industry support for new rock talent. He also elaborated on this in a 2014 “Esquire” interview, pointing to the lack of new iconic bands since the Beatles era and the economic challenges for emerging artists.

However plenty of legacy artists share a similar sentiment.

Jay Jay French fromTwisted Sister had made a few forays into this. You can read his latest here.

He makes a good argument about rock’s decline in cultural relevance, essentially claiming that rock is “dead” because it no longer produces massive young stars like it did in the late ’60s and ’70s.

He also points out that rock doesn’t define youth identity in the way hip-hop, pop, and country do today. It’s a compelling argument, but it’s not the full picture.

So where does Jay Jay have a point.

Rock isn’t the dominant force in youth culture anymore. Streaming, social media, and internet-driven virality have helped hip-hop and pop thrive while rock has struggled to keep up.

Since exact weekly numbers aren’t available, I’ll estimate based on monthly listener counts and annual streams, dividing by 52 for a rough weekly average, adjusted for current trends.

The top 50 metal and rock artists generate 70-100M weekly streams. This is a fraction of the broader streaming landscape, where total weekly streams across all genres exceed 4-5 billion (based on Spotify’s 2023 global totals of 200B+ annual streams).

Pop/Hip-Hop genres account for 50-60% of streams. Their top 50 artists alone could hit 400-500M weekly, 4-5x higher than metal/rock.

Metal and rock, despite passionate fanbases, remain a smaller player in the streaming game, punching above their weight culturally but not numerically.

The days of four kids in a garage forming a band and becoming icons by 25 is way harder to pull off now. Labels and streaming platforms push polished, solo acts over traditional bands.

Just like jazz and big band had their golden eras before becoming niche genres, rock’s mainstream heyday as a youth movement may simply be over.

So where does Jay Jay’s argument fall short?

Sure, rock isn’t a monoculture anymore, but it’s alive and well in subgenres like metal, indie, punk, and prog. Just because it’s not topping the Billboard Hot 100 doesn’t mean it’s dead.

Even in those subgenres, there are further subgenres and even more splintering.

In Latin America, Japan, and Scandinavia, rock and metal are huge. Just because the major markets aren’t as tuned in doesn’t mean the genre is extinct.

Back in the day, you were either a rock and metal fan or a hip-hop fan.

Now?

A single playlist might have Metallica, Bon Jovi, Kendrick Lamar, Whitesnake, Shinedown, Taylor Swift, and Bring Me The Horizon. Genre loyalty is weaker than ever.

As much as the internet was meant to level the playing field and remove the gatekeepers, streaming algorithms and major labels still push what’s easy to market.

Rock isn’t dying; it’s just not the industry’s priority.

French isn’t wrong. Rock doesn’t dominate pop culture like it used to, and we’re unlikely to see another Beatles-level rock phenomenon.

But calling it “dead” is an oversimplification.

The genre is evolving, diversifying, and thriving in different ways. It might never reclaim its past mainstream dominance, but it’s far from irrelevant.

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Music, My Stories

Iron Maiden – Live At Qudos Bank Arena, Sydney – 13 September 2024

A proud moment.

2016: My son’s first Iron Maiden concert, “The Book of Souls” tour.

2024: Eight years later, here we are again for “The Days of Future Past” tour.

Of course, we had to buy some merch, again.

And, of course, I had to buy some beers for myself and this time I had the older two riding shotgun. Naturally, this led to the classic “Are you buying alcohol for underage kids?” interrogation.

“Yes, officer, I like to live on the edge, by getting kicked out of an Iron Maiden show before it even starts.”

And let’s not forget the food situation. Kids are always hungry, and I just love paying hundreds of dollars for substandard, borderline offensive stadium meals. But hey, who cares? We weren’t there for the cuisine.

We were there for Maiden.

Iron Maiden’s opening bands don’t get much love in Australia. I remember “Behind Crimson Eyes” getting brutally booed at the “Caught Somewhere Back in Time”Sydney show. But to their credit, they powered through, then covered “Ace of Spades” and just like that, the crowd that wanted them gone was suddenly on their side.

This time, we had Killswitch Engage. Thanks to a heroic battle with traffic and then another war at the merch stalls, I only caught the second half of their set. From what I saw, they were tight, and the crowd gave them a solid response. But everyone was here for one reason.

The ritual begins:

“Doctor Doctor” plays.

The lights go out.

Vangelis’ “Blade Runner” end title starts.

And then—“Caught Somewhere in Time” kicks in.

“Caught Somewhere in Time”

Great opener, but they should’ve played the intro before hitting the fast riff.

Then again, they do the same thing with “Aces High,” so I should’ve seen it coming.

“Stranger in a Strange Land”

A personal favorite. Adrian Smith’s solo is one of those “song within a song” moments. Magic.

“The Writing on the Wall”

Another Adrian masterpiece solo, reminiscent of “Stranger In A Strange Land”.

“Days of Future Past”

Easily one of the best tracks off Senjutsu.

And that verse riff? Adrian again. Starting to see a pattern?

“The Time Machine”

Would you go back in time if you could?

This song has a lot of great riffs, but that harmony section after the first verse stands out.

“The Prisoner”

Wasn’t that excited for this one, until I saw my kids getting into it. Then I had a moment of clarity: open up my mind and enjoy myself.

“Death of the Celts”

Basically Blood Brothers Pt. 2. And I’m 100% okay with that.

“Can I Play With Madness?”

Or as Bruce calls it live: “Can I Play With Agnes?” Apparently, she never answers. Yeah I know, it’s a bad joke.

“Heaven Can Wait”

Wo-oh-oh. Enough said.

“Alexander the Great”

This was the reason I had to be here.

When I dubbed “Somewhere in Time” to cassette, I needed it to fit on a 45-minute side. If I followed the proper tracklist, I’d lose two minutes of “Alexander the Great”.

Unacceptable.

So I recorded Side 2 first, then Side 1, sacrificing part of “Heaven Can Wait” instead. I still got the “woh-oh-ohs’.

“Fear of the Dark”

The crowd sings the leads like it’s “Livin’ on a Prayer”.

“Iron Maiden”

Played at such ridiculous speed, even the term “speed metal” feels inadequate.

“Hell on Earth”

They basically turned the venue into a furnace with all the fire.

But that intro’s clean-tone lead?

Give me a sword and shield, I’m ready for battle.

“The Trooper”

No surprise here. It’s practically a legal requirement for every Maiden setlist.

“Wasted Years”

A perfect closer.

That intro? Instant immortality. Also… yes, I’m a full-blown Adrian Smith fanboy.

No shame.

And then, just like that, it was over.

Who knew this would be Nicko’s last tour behind the kit?

One of the greatest drummers in heavy metal and he did it all with one kick pedal and rock-solid technique.

Another Iron Maiden show in the books. Another legendary night. Another pile of money spent.

Worth every cent.

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A to Z of Making It, Copyright, Influenced, Music, Unsung Heroes

Derek Schulman

On October 15, 2020, Derek Schulman appeared on the Bob Lefsetz Podcast.

I first heard of Schulman as the guy responsible for signing Bon Jovi and Cinderella. But before becoming a label executive, he was a member of Gentle Giant (GG), a band that has a bigger fan base today than when they originally broke up.

When Lefsetz asked why GG had grown in popularity, Schulman explained: “We wrote music for ourselves, didn’t follow trends, and the music held up.” Interestingly, GG never considered themselves a progressive rock band. Rock, yes, but not prog. They simply pushed themselves musically.

I believe GG’s resurgence is largely due to the internet. Their music isn’t locked away in a vault, it’s widely accessible. If we were still in the pre-Napster era, their catalog might have remained buried, since labels wouldn’t see the financial incentive to print CDs. Labels have always believed they know what fans want, but they’ve often been wrong. Had they continued releasing hard rock in the ’90s, the genre could have still produced acts selling close to 500,000 units. Instead, they abandoned it.

It always comes back to the music. People return for the music, not for record sales, labels, executives, or streaming numbers.

From Musician to Executive

Before Gentle Giant, Schulman played in a band with a few hit singles, but by 1969, he was burned out from the pressure to keep churning out commercial hits. He wanted to form a band that was the opposite of pop, so GG was born.

But by 1980, after 14 years in bands, Schulman was done. GG had become a job, and he had lost enthusiasm for recording and touring. With nothing lined up, he spent a year feeling lost. Fortunately, he had savings, thanks to his role as GG’s quasi-manager in the mid-’70s.

A friend at PolyGram called with a job offer. Schulman moved from California to New York and joined the label as a Promotions/A&R rep, though his role was mostly promotions. He was hired because two of PolyGram’s heads of radio promotion were huge Gentle Giant fans.

At the time, PolyGram was a mess. The label had major acts like KISS and Def Leppard, but they drained a lot of resources. Schulman’s break came when artists and managers started bringing him albums. Uriah Heep was shopping a new record, and Schulman helped organize a deal to release it.

Then came Bon Jovi.

Bon Jovi’s Breakthrough

Schulman met Jon Bon Jovi and was impressed by his focus and drive. Jon wanted to be bigger than Elvis. He even introduced Schulman to his parents, who told him: “Take care of our son.”

At the time, no other labels were bidding on Bon Jovi. Schulman also had a strict policy, he refused to get into bidding wars.

The key move was bringing in Doc McGhee. Doc originally came to Schulman’s office pushing Pat Travers, but Schulman told him to check out Bon Jovi instead. Schulman saw in Doc the same relentless drive that Jon had.

Jon met Doc, they struck a deal, and just like with Schulman, Jon’s parents needed to approve.

McGhee put Bon Jovi on tour with Ratt and Scorpions. Their debut album was a success, but their second record, “7800° Fahrenheit”, was considered a sophomore slump. Schulman hated the album title, the recording process was a mess, and the overall vibe felt off. But the album did its job, it kept the band on the road while McGhee worked overtime to book shows.

Schulman, meanwhile, had started working with producers Bob Rock and Bruce Fairbairn, who had just finished albums with Loverboy and Honeymoon Suite. Jon and Doc knew they needed great producers to reach the next level.

Schulman suggested co-writing with others. Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons had already introduced Jon to Desmond Child. The rest is history.

The label knew they had something big as soon as “Slippery When Wet” was mastered. The original album cover was scrapped, and Jon designed the new one himself. “You Give Love a Bad Name” and “Livin’ on a Prayer” were immediate hits, and the album shot to No. 1. Schulman had a percentage point on the album, but when he left the label, his royalties ended.

Cinderella

Schulman was introduced to Cinderella by an agent, a lawyer, and Jon Bon Jovi, who knew Tom Keifer.

He went to see them play a club in Philadelphia. The band wasn’t great, Tom Keifer stood out, Jeff LaBar was solid on guitar, but the other two members weren’t up to par. Then Schulman listened to a 90-song demo of Keifer’s original material. He was blown away by Keifer’s songwriting.

Schulman told the lawyer: “Get Tom to replace the other two with better musicians, and I’ll give you a deal.”

Andy Johns was brought in to produce “Night Songs”. The album dropped shortly after “Slippery When Wet” exploded, and “Night Songs” shot into the Top 10. Suddenly, Schulman was on fire, he had two bands in the Top 10.

When Lefsetz asked why Cinderella never released another big album, Schulman pointed out that they did, “Long Cold Winter”, but he had briefly forgotten the title.

Tom Keifer eventually lost his voice, which Schulman confirmed was true. Schulman also helped shape Cinderella’s albums with his artist experience, though he didn’t contribute to Bon Jovi’s records in the same way. He even co-wrote songs with Tom but never took credit.

Dream Theater

Derek Oliver, an A&R representative at Atco Records and a passionate fan of progressive rock, was the key figure in discovering Dream Theater.

In the late 1980s, Dream Theater had self-released their debut album, “When Dream and Day Unite”, through Mechanic/MCA Records, but the album failed to gain much traction due to poor promotion and distribution.

Meanwhile, Oliver, who had interviewed and reviewed the band during the period as part of Kerrang was impressed by their technical proficiency and songwriting.

Recognizing their potential, he brought Dream Theater to the attention of Derek Schulman, the head of Atco Records at the time.

After meeting the band and seeing their dedication, Schulman agreed to sign them to Atco. Under his guidance, Dream Theater recorded their breakthrough album, Images and Words (1992), which featured the hit single “Pull Me Under.” The album’s success helped establish them as a leading force in progressive metal, proving that Schulman and Oliver’s instincts were right.

Running Labels

Schulman also played a key role in launching Bob Rock’s production career, giving him his first gig with Kingdom Come, another band that went on to dominate the charts.

In 1989, Schulman left PolyGram to run Atco Records. PolyGram wanted to keep him, offering him control of Vertigo and Mercury, but he wanted a change, even if it meant losing his Bon Jovi and Cinderella royalties.

Doug Morris was hesitant about Schulman at first and saw him as a potential replacement. But Schulman built an impressive roster, signing Pantera and The Rembrandts. He had actually planned to sign Pantera to PolyGram but knew he was leaving, so he told their attorney to wait until he moved to Atco.

At first, Atco thrived. Schulman put together a strong team, and the first three years were fantastic. But eventually, he started losing perspective. One day, he heard a No. 1 song on the radio and liked it. When he asked a work colleague who had signed the artist, they said: “You did.” That moment shook him.

Doug wanted him out, but Schulman quit. He even attempted a coup while on a trip to Russia.

Roadrunner Records and the Rise of Metal

Schulman took a break before getting a call from an old friend, Case Wessels, at Roadrunner Records. Initially consulting for a year, he eventually became president.

Roadrunner was independent, which Schulman loved—no board to answer to. He scrapped some of Wessels’ ideas and focused on breaking bands like Coal Chamber and Fear Factory, both signed by Monte Conner.

Then he saw Slipknot live and knew they would be massive.

He also signed Nickelback. Their first album (with Roadrunner) featuring “Leader of Men”, got some airplay, but when “Silver Side Up” dropped, Schulman immediately recognized its potential. The moment he heard “How You Remind Me”, he knew it would be huge.

Roadrunner was suddenly rolling in cash. Wessels wanted another “Silver Side Up”, but Schulman knew those albums don’t appear every six months, more like every 5 to 10 years.

Lefsetz asked why Nickelback gets so much hate. Schulman believes they’re a guilty pleasure, many people who claim to hate them secretly enjoy their music.

Finally, Schulman pointed out that while the industry panicked over piracy during Napster, hip-hop thrived by giving music away for free.

When streaming took over, hip-hop was already dominant—and it still is.

If you like your hard rock and metal history, then Derek Schulman is an unsung hero and this podcast is one to listen to.

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

The Case For Cryptic Writings

It’s 1996 and you are writing riffs for your next album. Your first four albums pushed the boundaries of technical thrash metal. Your last two albums went for more accessible song structures, which gave you radio airtime.

Seattle came and went but its cultural changes remained. Industrial Metal was becoming a thing, Alternative Rock, EMO and Goth Metal/Rock were slowly becoming a thing.

Your label wants to sell albums and the only way you can sell albums in their eyes is by having your songs on the radio.

You also fired your previous manager, as you believed that he was also taking a paycheck from the label. He reckons he wasn’t but hey that’s a story for another day.

So what do you do?

These were the questions that Dave Mustaine had to answer in 1996.

This wasn’t the Dave from ten years ago, addicted to drugs and with nothing to lose. This Dave had something to lose now, a family and a corporate machine called Megadeth.

Freedom to do what you want doesn’t come when you have something to lose. In addition, this Dave had been in and out of rehab since 1988, and he just finished another rehab stint just before the “Cryptic Writings” sessions started.

Oh, and by the way, his band was also splintering.

Actually his band was always splintering, but the longest running version of Megadeth was splintering. For those who don’t know, this version involves Marty Friedman, David Ellefson and Nick Menza (RIP).

Dan Huff is producing and the new management company ESP Management was led by Bud Prager, who had guided Foreigner from a small time rock band to an 80 million seller.

Mustaine still had a chip on his shoulder from a certain band he was in and he “wanted what Metallica had even if it meant selling a piece of his soul to the devil” (his exact words on page 276 of his bio).

Trust

The drum intro. Its familiar.

Avenged Sevenfold were very heavily influenced by it for their opening track “Shepherd Of Fire” on the “Hail To The King” album. Metallica had “Enter Sandman” before this and the great AC/DC had “Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap) before all of em.

Once a great drum hook, it’s always a great drum hook.

If I look into my crystal ball, I can see the heirs of the artists or the Corporations that would end up owning the Copyrights litigating against others for this drum groove in the future.

When that riff kicks in, its head banging time. Yes the tempo is slower, the song is more accessible but it wasn’t a sell out. This was still very much Megadeth.

The Chorus; anthemic.

Apart from becoming a set list staple, it’s also their biggest hit single.

Almost Honest

That intro riff.

It’s bone crunching with a feel and vibe from AC/DC and a Major key Chorus which is a massive no-no to the Minor key Thrash community.

In the end, Mustaine was trying to rewrite “Symphony Of Destruction” and he got a song that sounded similar but different enough to stand on its own.

Very accessible but still very much like Megadeth.

Use The Man

Alternative rock or Grunge. Take your pick as it’s still rock and metal to me.

Plus I always like it when artists take what is popular at the time and still make it sound like their sound.

Mastermind

An intro riff influenced by “Walk This Way”.

The verses are demented, perfect for Mustaines snarling.

The Disintegrators

It’s fast and thrashing like the old Megadeth, but with more melody in the vocals.

If the main riff sounds familiar, Mr Hetfield was obviously influenced as “Lux Aterna” has a similar riff.

Then again, both Mustaine and Hetfield are influenced by the NWOBHM and this riff is from that movements playbook.

And the solo. Brilliant.

At 3:04, it’s over and the only thing left to do is to press play again.

I’ll Get Even

It’s got the same playbook as “Almost Human” but with clean tone in the verses and a psychedelic alternative rock Chorus.

And how good is the bass groove, locked in with the drums.

SIN

It’s accessible but it’s still Megadeth. The riffs are angry and head banging.

A Secret Place

From writing an accessible album, they came up with a classic, a song that still does the rounds in the live show.

As soon as the Intro kicks in, I was hooked.

Have Cool, Will Travel

The harmonica, and a groove reminiscent of “American Woman”, yet it still feels like a Megadeth track.

She-Wolf

A masterpiece.

Make sure you stick around for the Outro harmony section.

Vortex

Another classic but this one gets no love.

It’s a fast cut influenced by the NWOBHM especially Judas Priest, with a demented Mustaine snarl in the verses and an anthemic melodic chorus.

FFF

The fast punk that Megadeth is known for is evidenced here. Definitely a forgotten track.

The Wrap Up

The album achieved a Platinum certification but it didn’t bring in a new audience as Mustaine and his new management team had anticipated.

I read that hard core fans were confused. They liked it but didn’t like it completely. That viewpoint never made sense to me as I see myself as a hard core fan and I like it alot.

Mustaine mentioned in his book that by “trying to become more melodic and still remaining true to their metal roots”, he alienated his core fans with this album as he didn’t get the mixture right.

A terrible Howard Stern interview didn’t help matters either. And during the tour, Nick Menza was booted with Jimmy DeGrasso replacing him. However Menza would still return for the next album.

Overall, “Cryptic Writings” is a great album. The concise songwriting and simple arrangements suited Mustaine and for me, having this album in 1996 was a godsend, compared to some of the other confused albums my favorite artists started delivering during this period.

If you haven’t heard it, hear it. If you have heard it, hear it again.

\::/

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