Thursday, June 19, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Listening Station

Mastodon

Remission

The name says it all--or most of it, anyway. Heaving, lurching and lumbering with a certa\in feral majesty, Mastodon matches its namesake to a near-T--"near" because this beast hailing from Atlanta also leaps, swings, storms and spazzes in ways its elephantine counterpart never did. Remission, the band's second Relapse effort, is a platter heavy with tricked-out, Sabbath-on-speed stonercore that sports a certifiable superiority complex; indeed, these 11 tracks ripsnort with a loud, brute grandiosity that blends Southern sludge-rock, math-metal and just enough whiptailing hesher guitar lines to prove these four guys do in fact crack smiles on occasion.

You might not think that on the first trudge through this violent Okefenokee shitstorm of an album. Remission throbs with a knuckly pomposity reflected not only by the cascades of crushing riffs, but also by the cryptic, terse (and overwrought) lyrics--printed in all caps, no less. Okay, reading "As passion encircles the daily storm/ The heart bleeds and droughts do not" might induce eye-rolls, but hearing bassist Troy Sanders roar those very lines on "March of the Fire Ants," you're likely to lose bowel control. Arguably the finest track on the album, "March" swaggers and stomps with controlled martial fury--and then skull-cracks you with a catchy, rearing guitar attack.

The band's obsession with displays of power is tiresome but forgivable. Songs such as "Where Strides the Behemoth," "Mother Puncher" and "Workhorse" may belie power dreams of pimply adolescents, but goddamn if the music doesn't bear out the preoccupation. "Workhorse," for instance, is a chugging, groove-heavy number crazily sprayed with drum fire that'll alternately inspire melon-bobbing freakouts and boggled admiration of Mastodon's technical virtuosity.

Which isn't to say Mastodon doesn't value a pretty guitar line here and there. Slower moments on the disc see the outfit weaving moody lines ("Train Wreck") or even pumping out competent blues-rock smokers ("Elephant Man"). But those are momentary, yeah-we-can-play-that-fancy-shit-too conceits that crumble beneath so much incredible juggernaut two-fisting. Oh, those boys with their toys.--Andrew Kiraly

Rooney

Rooney

Rooney has one of the worst names in the history of rock 'n' roll. It's just godawful. Rooney? As in the miniature actor? As in the late owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers? As in the principal in Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Bingo! Still, what possessed these five L.A. mop-toppers to think Rooney was a good name for a rock band?

Fortunately, the members of Rooney exhibit better judgment in writing and performing music, borrowing heavily from the best in the business: the Beatles, the Beach Boys, Queen, Cheap Trick. Rooney recently toured with the Strokes, but they represent the flip side of the retro rock resurgence. Where the Strokes aim to echo the darker sounds of the Velvet Underground and the Stooges, Rooney revels in the sunnier side of bygone eras.

Simply put, Rooney writes consistently good pop rock songs, highlighted on the debut album by "Blueside," "Stay Away" and "Popstars." They're catchy, fun and often thoughtful. The emphasis on teenage romantic notions probably has something to do with the fact that the band members just got out of high school. It's bubble-gum rock with a brain.

Regrettably, Rooney's upbeat songs are likely to find their way to the 94.1 crowd, leading seasoned critics to dismiss the band as N'Sync with guitars or Weezer without irony. Rooney deserves better.

Now, about that photo of the band playing on a SoCal beach. Who the hell came up with that crap? Probably the same genius who named the band...--Geoff Schumacher

Caesars

39 Minutes of Bliss (In An Otherwise Meaningless World)

There are four reasons to be very cynical about Caesars. For one, the quartet plays retro garage music--as if we haven't had enough of that. Second, it originates from Sweden--because the only rock institutions Scandinavian musicians seem to pay any mind to are the Stones, the Stooges and the Nuggets boxed sets. Third, it's known as Caesars Palace in its native homeland, and that just sounds dumb no matter where you're from. And fourth, its new Astralwerks album, 39 Minutes of Bliss (In An Otherwise Meaningless World) isn't new material--it's a greatest hits album packaged as an introduction for anyone outside of Sweden with a boner for mono proto-punk flavored with a Farfisa organ. Now that The Soundtrack of Our Lives has earned a Grammy nom and the demand for the Hives has pitted labels against each other, every Swedish mod dropout must ensure America and Britain hears his band.

Should you get over all that and spin the entire record, it probably means you're either reviewing the album or rely way too much on CMJ's nice and neat "File under..." recommendations. It also means you'll be rewarded by a novelty band that can actually consistently write good songs. The problem with some of its countrymen is their sound and attitude come before the tunes, the Hives and Soundtrack excepted. Caesars' melodies are pretty tough to roll your eyes at, because the Ramones basically wrote the same sort of uptempo, forlorn, pubescent sex-drugs-and-rock 'n' roll anthems, and who's knocking them? Granted, this is a compilation of tried-and-true material without a hair of originality. However, there are few caveats that can fend off good songwriting, and these pop thieves break on through despite their ancillary and dated attributes.--Mike Prevatt