Up the Irons and eff the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

The Boys from Britain don't need no stinking HOF!

Iron Maiden has been nominated for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

My reaction? Who gives a shit.

Evidently I’m supposed to be excited by this news… I find myself feeling rather apathetic, with a smattering of bemusement and a (slight) bit of anger.  I do recognize the considerable irony in stating “who gives a shit” and then spending my time writing a post about the news. Evidently I have some level of investment. But I’m writing this as much for as my own amusement as anything else.

A little history on my relationship with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In the past I have kept tabs on the list of inductees. I was happy to see the likes of Black Sabbath and KISS eventually get in, though both are kind of no-brainers. I didn’t get too wrapped up in either nomination, because I figured it was a done deal. And it was (an aside: it took KISS, eligible for induction since 1999, FIFTEEN YEARS to get in, which it finally did in 2014).

My typical level of detached minor interest ratcheted up in 2018 when stupidly, I got wrapped up in the fan vote for Judas Priest. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame includes a fan vote, with the top five acts in the popular vote earning what amounts to a single “vote.” These five bands then get that one vote added to the couple hundred votes cast by the real power-holders, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Committee, a shadowy cabal of unknowns who hold all the power of who gets in and who gets left “Out in the Cold” (pun intended).

As should be obvious by the formula, one fan vote stacked against a couple hundred “educated” votes by the “critics,” counts for next to nothing. I spent time--too much, as you can vote over and over again, though only once per day--voting on the HOF platform, only to see Priest—which did get in the top five in the fan vote—get croaked by the committee.

So, in 2018 Judas Priest—a band who revolutionized heavy metal by adding an iconic sound (the twin guitar attack) and establishing its iconic look (leather and studs), immortal songs like “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming” and “Breaking the Law,” and a 50+ year legacy of influencing countless bands—lost to the likes of Nina Simone.

Since then Priest has failed to make it any further, to the Hall’s eternal shame.

That brings me to Iron Maiden, another personal favorite band of mine about whom I’ve made my love abundantly clear here on the blog.

Maiden has had a career that would turn 90% of the previously inducted acts’ faces green with envy. I don’t think people outside of heavy metal circles understand how massively popular and influential these guys are. They’ve been selling out sports arenas (pre-COVID of course) for 40 years. They’ve sold more than 100 million copies of their albums worldwide, all without any commercial airplay or support. At one point VH1 ranked them No. 24 in their “100 Greatest Artists of Hard Rock.”

It’s utterly absurd to think that they need to add a Hall of Fame credential to justify whether or not they are great, or influential on the development of rock-and-roll. But frankly, it’s the “hard” part of “hard rock” that makes Maiden an unlikely candidate for Hall of Fame acceptance.

The fact is, the voting on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is calculatedly political, and archly snobbish, and therefore actively hostile to brash, loud, metal acts. Heavy metal can never get its just due in this stifling, narrow-minded environment. Even relatively safe, mainstream party rock acts like KISS only get a look when their case is so overwhelmingly obvious that to leave them out would compromise any shred of validity the enterprise still holds.

Bruce Dickinson has voiced his opinions very clearly on the Hall of Fame, calling the Hall "an utter and complete load of bollocks" that is "run by a bunch of sanctimonious bloody Americans who wouldn’t know rock ’n’ roll if it hit them in the face." Go Bruce.

So in the end, it does not matter whether Maiden gets in. Their career speaks for itself. When Maiden is finally retired and gone, the echoes of “Hallowed be thy Name” and “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” will ring through the ages, long after most of the acts in the Hall of Fame have been forgotten.

Unlike 2018 I will not waste a moment voting for Maiden. Not because I don’t love the band, but because the institution itself is corrupt. No Maiden, Priest, or Motorhead renders the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame utterly irrelevant.

Parasite, "Night Winds"

 

The first 1:02 of "Nightwinds," an obscure song by an obscure Swedish metal band named Parasite, encompasses everything I love about the heavy metal genre. Atmosphere. Grandeur. Power. Artistry.

Unfortunately the song is undone by its underwhelming chorus. Also, "breaking the nightwinds" sounds suspiciously like a nocturnal emission under the sheets. Oh well. But I also love the incredibly cheesy depths that metal occasionally descends into. It's all part of the charm.

Anyways, crank up this clip from Youtube, and listen to at least the first minute or so. You have to play metal loud or it doesn't work.

Some ramblings on old school tastes in music, reading

Now that's old school.

I was glancing at my bookshelves recently, as I’m wont to do when I’m in between books and scanning for the next title … or if it’s just Tuesday. And it struck me that my reading tastes are rooted firmly in the past.

My top shelf has got the collected works of Rudyard Kipling, Rafael Sabatini’s Scaramouche, and several books by E.R. Eddison and Poul Anderson. The next shelf down are the Lancer Conan Saga, Karl Edward’s Kane, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. Not exactly George R.R. Martin, Patrick Rothfuss, or John Scalzi. Any of which I could be into, but am really not, even if some day I do plan to finish A Song of Ice and Fire, if Martin ever gets around to it.

I do take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone. An adherent of Anglo-Saxon literature and Icelandic Saga, J.R.R. Tolkien was of the mind that anything after the Canterbury Tales was (mostly) not worth his time. I’m glad I’m not that extreme, or else I never would have discovered The Lord of the Rings or “Beyond the Black River.” But, in another sense I’m quite like Tolkien, my eyes cast ever backwards at the literature of a lost age. We’ll never have another golden age of sword-and-sorcery, when drugstores carried Conan the Buccaneer on their wire spinners and Thundarr the Barbarian thundered through living rooms on Saturday mornings. But that doesn’t mean I’ve moved on from those glory days. Today my drugstore is Abe Books and Ebay, where I hunt down old copies of Pursuit on Ganymede and Raven 5: A Time of Dying. And I know there are many others like me, based on what I’ve seen in the Facebook groups I belong to.

My tastes in reading are analogous to my tastes in music, which is likewise the music of my youth. My favorite bands are Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, KISS, Rush, and AC/DC. Some of these guys are still writing new material—some of it damned good—but mostly they are associated with their heyday in the 70s and 80s. If you’re a fan, you’re ancient history, pal.

I would not say I’m a hopeless case, irrevocably trapped in the past. I can and do enjoy some new stuff. Battle Beast, a young Finnish metal band for example, caught my attention, and now have muscled their way into my playlist alongside the likes of Blind Guardian and Pantera. I like Joe Abercrombie, including the likes of The Heroes (2011). At this very moment I’m reading and enjoying Brian Keene’s The Lost Level (2015), which just came out in the last decade.

But on some level even these “new” finds are anachronistic, often deliberately so, which continues to prove my point that I like old shit. For example, The Lost Level is a clear homage to the likes of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Pellucidar series. Battle Beast is an unabashed throwback to the 80s. It should come as no surprise that the band draws inspiration for its sound and lyrics from that era. Even in the new stuff I consume, I’m drawn inevitably to older forms of expression.

I do wonder: Do we develop our tastes during a formative time in our lives and become part of us forever? Does some biochemical process shape our malleable brains between the ages of 8-18, and permanently alter our mental wiring? Musician and musicologist Nolan Gasser offers some answers along those lines, arguing that the music you listened to as a youth placed you within a culture that formed part of your identity:

“I actually use the term ‘intraculture’ to describe cultures that take place within a culture,” he explains, likening them to subgenres of music. “A lot of it has to do with where you grew up and what kind of musical influences are in the air, but we participate in so many subcultures of affinity, just based on what we like. Intracultures provide us with access to music just because you’re a part of a group, and that group means something to you.”

“Music becomes that stake in the ground — ‘this is who I am,’” says Gasser. “But at the same time, the music people listened to at an early age becomes their native home comfort music. When they grow up, that music will be part of who they are, tied in with memories and growing up. All of these powers are why music is so important to us.”

There is no doubt that heavy metal had its own culture and ethos, one that I participated in, and on some level still do. I may be indistinguishable from your average everyday middle-aged middle class dude, but I have a metal spirit in me, an anti-authoritarian streak and a pride in having tastes that are harsher than the mainstream, even anathema in some quarters. I’m sure that’s part of the reason why I maintain such an enduring loyalty for these bands.

Interesting is my lack of nostalgia in other areas—I enjoy the latest psychology and self-help books, for example. I delight in the latest and greatest beer from new breweries (Heady Topper is way better than Pabst Blue Ribbon). I’ve come to enjoy podcasts as a new medium for consuming information and entertainment, even though I still prefer the printed page over e-books.

It’s really only certain forms of art, in particular music and fantasy literature, where my preferences clearly lie with works pre-1990.

Another possible explanation: Were the authors and musicians of my youth simply better at their craft? Were these subgenres—heavy metal and sword-and-sorcery—more widely practiced because they were more lucrative, or more creatively vital, and hence attracted more and greater talent, producing better art than we see today? Perhaps. Some authors can and did make a living writing for Weird Tales back in the day, and of course many metal acts made a fortune in the 80s. Artists don’t enjoy the same market realities today. The bar to writing and publishing stories and music is easier than ever, but I don’t believe it’s as easy to make a living at either these days.

Who knows. Be it a matter of identity and cultural imprinting, or idiosyncratic tastes, it’s hard to say why I enjoy the old shit. All I know that is that heavy metal and Tolkien and sword-and-sorcery were my obsessions then, remain so today, and likely always will be.

Sword-and-Planet Love-Letter: Gardner Fox’s Warrior of Llarn

Warrior on a blue zebra with horns! In space...

 

New post up at the blog of Goodman Games, publisher of Tales from the Magician's Skull: Sword-and-Planet Love-Letter: Gardner Fox’s Warrior of Llarn.

I enjoyed this immensely and without reservation, too much for my own good. So much fun, and the pacing is basically a dead sprint. If you're bored reading Warrior of Llarn there's minimal to no hope for you. Definitely worth seeking out and reading. If you're a fan of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars series it will feel intensely... familiar. It's basically an homage to A Princess of Mars. But still great. Thief of Llarn doesn't rise to the same heights, but it's still good.

Of Heady Topper and the craft brewery revolution

The OG, Heady Topper.

I expend a lot of digital ink on The Silver Key writing about how my eyes were opened to a new kind of fantasy when I discovered Robert E. Howard, and the great passion and respect I possess for the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. But I have a couple of additional passions as well. One of them happens to be beer. And I can say without reservation that my life changed in 2014 when I drank my first can of Heady Topper.

I’m not sure how many of my visitors are from the New England region of the United States, but among the many reasons why I enjoy living here (along with fall, and the mountains of New Hampshire, and the seacoast) is the beer scene. New England gave birth to a style of beer that has become my favorite, the New England India Pale Ale, or NEIPA.

NEIPAs are characterized by their hazy appearance, citrus aroma, and hop-forwardness. Some are double dry hopped, with the likes of Citra, Mosaic, and Galaxy hops added in whole, late in the brewing process, to add even more hoppy goodness and piney bite. In the last decade the NEIPA has exploded in popularity and has become a staple at breweries everywhere. But we largely have Heady Topper, the OG, and the Alchemist Brewery in Vermont to thank.

I’ve never been a beer snob. I started with the likes of Budweiser, Miller Lite, and Coors, and will still drink a cold Coors Lite on a hot summer day. But in the late 90s I began to branch out and discover the joys of smaller breweries and styles beyond Lagers and Pilsners. Sam Adams Boston Lager was an early favorite, as was Harpoon IPA and Long Trail IPA. Blue Moon, a Belgian White, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and Magic Hat #9, another pale, were also early favorites. These were “craft beers” before the true small, local craft beer scene began to emerge in the late 2000s.

As the 21^st century rolled around I started hearing about this new beer called Heady Topper. An article in the Boston Globe described Massachusetts residents driving for three hours up to Stowe, then waiting for another 2-3 hours in line, to get it. Who the hell would wait for a beer, when my local packie offers immediate convenience?

How good could it possibly be?

I had the chance to find out in 2014 while up in VT visiting some friends. My friend had picked up some Heady Topper, Focal Banger, and Crusher from the Alchemist, and I finally got to crack a few cans with him, in front of a wood fire in the cold mountains outside of Burlington.

Mind blown. My eyes were opened to what beer could truly be. I didn’t weep, but something inside me was moved, and since then I’ve been all in on the craft beer craze. Later I took a trek up to Stowe to buy a two-case allotment from the Alchemist. My wallet and waistline have paid the price.

Heady Topper is 8% ABV and packs a punch. It’s also very hop forward. You can’t give a new beer drinker a Heady Topper or any of the high IBU IPAs right out of the gate. It’s cruel, like plopping a wobbly new skier on a double black diamond ski run. You need to build up to it, condition your palette, before taking that kind of plunge. I don’t believe I could have enjoyed Heady had not I had a history of drinking Harpoon and Sierra Nevadas and the like.

Since Heady Topper many other amazing NEIPAs have come along with their own takes on the style, and many believe the Alchemist has been surpassed. That could very well be the case. My personal favorite is Bissell Brothers Brewing in Portland, ME, whose Swish (which can only be purchased at the brewery, in limited releases, and for which I have waited nearly 2 hours in line to obtain) is so good that words fail me. I also love their flagship Ale, Substance, as well as Reciprocal. They don’t make a bad beer.

Heavy hitters. From left to right, Trillium Fort Point, Battery 
Steele Flume, Kettlehead The Agent, Swish (Bissell Brothers),
Sip of Sunshine, and Focal Banger (Alchemist)

Other favorite beers and breweries include:

• Fort Point, Trillium Brewing, Boston MA (actually a pale, but double dry hopped and in same ballpark as the New England IPA
• Ponyhawk, Resilience Brewing, Littleton NH
• Flume, Battery Steele Brewing, Portland ME
• Sip of Sunshine, Lawson’s Finest Liquids, Waitsfield VT (though brewed elsewhere)
• It’s Complicated Being a Wizard, Burlington Beer Company, Shelburne, VT
• The Agent, Kettlehead Brewing, Tilton, NH
• Fiddlehead IPA, Fiddlehead Brewing Company, Shelburne VT

I do like other styles of beer beyond the IPA. There is an amazing brewery about 10 minutes from my house in neighboring Amesbury, Brewery Silvaticus, which makes wonderful German inspired ales and lagers and stouts, amazingly well-balanced beers that are a joy to drink. It’s wonderful to walk into Silvaticus and see the stainless steel brewing tanks set against old brickwork, drink a beer or three, shoot the shit, and watch the world go by.

Today local craft breweries are springing up everywhere. While the pandemic has certainly slowed their growth and put a few out of business, from 2008 through 2016 craft breweries grew sixfold. Their superior product has put a major dent in the goliaths. Over the same period shipments from the likes of Anheuser-Busch, MillerCoors, Heineken, Pabst, fell 14%. Local craft breweries have the advantage of producing fresher, unpasteurized beer, hyper-locally, and often offer great atmosphere and personality. The small breweries of today remind me somewhat of the classic Irish Pubs. Instead of loud music and 20-somethings pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, swilling shit beer, craft breweries gather folks of all ages to gab, and revel in well-made local product.

I’m very glad to be living in this golden age of beer.

Kothar!

 

By Dwalka! This was a fortune to make a man mad.

Gardner Fox is far and away my favorite pastiche author. I love his Kothar and Kyrik books as just plain fun, straight up S&S entertainment, and his two volume Llarn series (Warrior of Llarn, Thief of Llarn) are wonderful examples of sword-and-planet. He won't make you forget Robert E. Howard, but Fox delivers fun, semi tongue-in-cheek adventure.

At right is the complete Kothar series. Below is a period advertisement from Kothar and the Wizard Slayer. It's so cool I think I'll take up smoking.

Smoke up Johnny.

A review of Tolkien (2019)

I’m currently on a J.R.R. Tolkien kick, having finished both a re-read of The Lord of the Rings and a re-read of Humphrey Carpenter’s outstanding biography. Last night I watched for the first time Tolkien (2019), which I have both managed to (until now) avoid out of some combination of forgetfulness and anticipated dread of ill-treatment of its subject. I’m pleased to say that I found it a good film, not great, but worth the watch.

Tolkien focuses on Tolkien’s early life from roughly age 10, circa 1902, ending with him writing the iconic first line of The Hobbit, in the early 1930s. We get a heavy emphasis on his romance with Edith Bratt, his friendship with the T.C.B.S., four passionate boys who shared a common love of heroic literature, his love of languages, and his experiences with love and war that inspired his great story of the war of the ring and its underlying mythology.

Overall I enjoyed the film, and was moved by a few scenes. It took several dramatic liberties, compressing and magnifying various events to help propel along the sometimes quite ordinary course of about 25 years of his life. Other events I believe were wholly created—sneaking into the storage room of a sold-out concert hall to listen to a performance of the Richard Wagner opera “Der Ring des Nibelungen” with Edith, for example. Normally I would not complain about it, except that Tolkien was not particularly influenced by Wagner’s opera, despite the shared conceit of a ring of power, and a casual viewer of the film might leave thinking that Wagner’s Ring Cycle was the chief influence on The Lord of the Rings (it was not). Tolkien did romantically reunite with Bratt after the latter had gotten engaged to another man, and encouraged her to break off the relationship. But it did not happen in the seconds before Tolkien dramatically boarded a transport ship to France, as was portrayed in Tolkien. But I accept these changes in the spirit of needing to create a dramatic film, which is very different from biography or history.

Tolkien was also surprisingly low on the “cringe” factor. There were no made-up dramatic charges into German machine gun fire, embarrassing sex scenes, or manufactured maudlin T.C.B.S. speeches; rather the genuine friendship and spirit of the four boys was well-portrayed, as was Tolkien’s view of Edith as something akin to an elven princess (for better and for worse, as she often felt alienated by his split personality around her). Tolkien’s life had a great many tragedies and triumphs that required no exaggeration, and the film presented some of these faithfully. I particularly liked that it preserved the 1916 letter from G.B. Smith to Tolkien, in which the former foresaw his own end in the fields of France and implored his old schoolmate to continue the great work the T.C.B.S. had vowed to create:

My God bless you, my dear John Ronald, and may you say the things I have tried to say long after I am not there to say them, if such be my lot.

It is heartbreaking to think what came next: T.C.B.S member Rob Gilson died in one of the many suicidal advances across the mud-choked Somme battlefield, straight into German machine-gun fire; Smith suffered shrapnel wounds from an exploding artillery shell and later died of gangrene infection. That left only Wiseman and Tolkien to carry on the T.C.B.S.' promised great work. Tolkien developed trench fever and had to be evacuated back to England, which in all likelihood saved his life. He and Wiseman held up their end of the bargain: Wiseman would go on to become a school headmaster, while Tolkien of course would go on to become an Oxford professor and write the greatest fantasy the world has ever known.

The best account of this period of Tolkien’s life remains John Garth’s Tolkien and the Great War, which after Tom Shippey’s The Road to Middle-Earth is one of the best pieces of Tolkien scholarship I have read. But you could do worse on a Saturday night than a viewing of Tolkien.