Unchain the Night - Hard rock, hellishly bad rock, and cleansing black metal

We here at Metal Night, most of us, the older ones, the elder gods, are creatures of the 1980's. We were suckled on the hard tits of hard rock, rocked our cradles to Van Halen, lost out cherries to Warrant. Actually, more like ass raped to Warrant, because they sucked, but we had no choice in the matter. We are products of our environment. Therefore, we must explore the artifacts of our past, in order to chart the path to our future, which is full of pain and suffering and woe and fucking metal. Onward to glorious, sweet death!

The first hard rock night was bitchin. First up, Krokus's Headhunter was a delightful album, and not the AC/DC knock off that this band was said to be. This is pretty hard edged for the early 80's, but not too hard edged. And the ballad 'Screaming In The Night' is lighter worthy party metal for your 80's retro kegger.

Armored Saint's Raising Fear is the more blatantly metal, but there is a tuneful edge that just might lure your GF to backseat of your Chevy Nova, though she might have been there already. Odd that this band never made it big, because this is a collection of tunes that leaves most of the poddle metal from that era in the fucking dust. But alas, a lack of hairspray and power ballads was this band's commercial downfall. John Bush had to join Anthrax just to get some pussy.I'm not sure he did.
. But Dokken won the night, because Dokken rockens. Under Lock And Key is my favorite Dokken album. It was Demon Scourge to taught me how to appreciate this band, during a rather lengthy interrogation involving a flaming hot poker. It's a collection of slick tunes livened up by George Lynch's flaming licks and Don Dokken's flaming heterosexuality. Truly, this was the soundtrack to Saturday nights in the late 80's while cruising on the strip, right before that bout with chlamydia put a damper on things. Owww!

Into the Necro Lands Part 18.1 - Boyz are Gonna Rock

The moon had just risen over the grove where Bloodmace and I were listening to the tale of Rygar the seeker. The bearded warrior priest was telling us of how he came to be the new master of Castle Thrashstone. A soft, warm breeze was rustling through the trees above as he told of his mission to assassinate Hellmaster, who took possession of the castle after being exiled from their tribe in northern Jenkabala. After becoming lost and wandering for years in the Time Desert, gathering lost souls all the while, they at last fount their quarry, but fate had other plans for these nomads.

Well well. Since we were on a hard rock trip, reliving the our youths before the 1990's stripped all the joy from our lives, we thought we'd extend our hard rock trip by having a diel of the kiss guitarists....Ace Frehley vs. Vinnie Vincent. In this, we brought shame upon Chateau Jenkabala. Mostly, except Ace's KISS solo album is pretty righteous, and pretty much accepted as the sole redeeming album from that debacle. Indeed, it is an enjoyable collection of hard rockin' tunes, not too complicated, always a good times, especially after a few cheap American beers. 10 years later, Frehley's Comet is a little more of a guilty pleasure. It's pleasant enough. It rocks righteously, occasionally. But goddamn, lyrically Ace Frehley makes Gene Simmon's look like fucking Tom Waits and Paul Stanley like fucking Nick Cave. And half the song's feature the other guitar player, who has a bland 80's AOR type voice. Ace's can't sing/don't care approach is rather endearing.

Vinnie Vincent was a disappointment. The problem with 80's hair metal is that the bands always ended up sounding like fucking pussies by whoever was producing them. Dokken was one of the few to transcend this problem. The Vinnie Vincent Invasion did not. Despite lots of awesome guitar solos, the 80's bargain basement song writing is a turd shined up by a stellar major label production. It's party rock if your party is raided by cops after someone steals all your weed, and your sister is date raped.

Into the Necro Lands Part 18.2 - War

Rygar the seeker continues “I walked through the night with Lady Deathcrush, following the billowing cape trailing behind her through the city of tents and lean-tos. Past fires surrounded by drunken revelers and circles of solemn supplicants, praising the hundred gods. Through a vast field where ancient music echoed on the soft breeze and under a moss covered bridge illuminated by a weed-choked streetlight in the strange forest that had sprung up here almost overnight. Finally, we came to a low building, partially underground, in a clearing of the wood. Descending the rough steps, we entered the dimly lit chamber. The room is furnished simply, a table, chair and fireplace are the only furnishings in view. The chair, facing the fireplace is an opulent throne that looks out of place in this spartan shelter. A cloud of vapor rises into the air over its tall back and I am greeted by the king, 'Welcome traveler, I heard you might be looking for me.' I walk around the other side of the room and behold the end of my quest. I had found Hellmaster. His eyes size me up as he puffs on his vaporizer, 'You are Rygar of Samur, are you not?' I nod my head, 'Are you going to strike me down? I am unarmed and that is what you have come here to do.' Images swirl in my head, a mist of confused emotions and possible outcomes. I close my eyes

for a moment and gather the will to do what I must. 'No,' I can hardly believe the word even as it exits my mouth, 'I will not kill you. For too long we have been lost in this brutal wilderness. We have no nation, no tribe and thus no obligation to any but ourselves.' Hellmaster smiles and rises from his chair. Crossing the room, he stares out the window as he begins to address me. 'Not too long ago, the spot where we stand was a wasteland of prismatic sand, constantly being torn apart and rebuilt by the savage dimensional storms, but now look upon it. I see life springing up everywhere, though not necessarily new life. It's almost as if the time desert was a cloak that fell over the land and when Bloodmace healed the rift, the heavy fabric of these strange times was lifted, allowing us to see the world as it really is. Rygar, You say you have no tribe or nation but you forget the tribe you have known in your years here and the nation you have built out in the time desert. We are leaving this place, Lady Deathcrush and I, all that I can do here has been done. Tomorrow, at sunrise, we will depart for the Necrolands to the west. Rygar, I have summoned you here not as an enemy, but as a successor to my throne.' I have never felt such terrifying exhilaration as the moment when Hellmaster held out the secret talisman of Castle Thrashstone and when I took hold of the sigil, the sense of purpose I had sought in the Time Desert asserted itself.” Rangar looked again to the darkening sky and paused, squinting into the distance. “Now I have told you my story. Let us go to Zlendar and she will give us the knowledge we need to defeat Necro Baby.” Bloodmace and I glance at one another and silently agree. We fade into the dusky forest with Rygar, ready for whatever may come next.

We atoned for our sins the next week by listening to some righteous French black metal while drinking red wine. Satan forgives. First, we heard a band from an area that used to be part of France, but was conquered by Germany long ago. Maladie was, oddly,  a bit of a disappointment. Tight, technical, and definitely more German than French, their 2012 album, Plague Within, suffers from the infamous 'not being evil enough disease'. Too many bright sounding post black metal chords to impress the hipsters to impress this metal nerd on this Metal Night.

Blut Aus Nord's latest album, Memoria Vestura III: Saturnian Poetry, however, was a ripping blast of old school hell frost that we desperately needed to redeem our desperate souls. This album, oddly, lacked the industrial hell scapes that marked their previous albums, and harkens back to Emperor and Dark Funeral, without the keyboards. Cvlt as fuck.

But not as cvlt as Baise Ma Hache, who won the fucking night. Le Grand Suicide made us peel off our faces with dull butter knives.This album was trippy, depressive, avante gard black metal, and was exactly what I needed to get right again with the devil. And I don't need the skin on my face. Just vasoline.

Words of the Elders

So the tale of Rygar the seeker has been told, but what of Necrobaby and Iron James? What of Bildorf the Mad and the small army that even now combs the ocean for our hunted heroes? The cosmic ear has opened and fate calls the tune where balmy winds carry weird songs to dimensions unknown. Hail to Sampowt, to Gorn and Ixtatha! The holy bread and Miztoratha!

Until next time, swashbuckling legions,

Horns