Friday, May 22, 2009

Shredding Across The World...Volume Two

Awesome, dudes, just what ya need right, a collection inspired by that Shrapnel label that spawned a generation of young men guitar teachers gesticulated lavishly about as they pontificated about pointless modes and Iolian triplets like a constipated tabloid columnist with elephant laxatives catching up on several chutes of gossip. Either that or a cruel trick to assuage the angst and giving the impression that practising the art of the widdle, years after you’ve (hopefully) passed potty-training with distinction (again, hopefully) will assure you the services of the girls from the Crue vids AND the Dave Lee Roth ones with a few English dogs from some old Gun video thrown in for variety. Or, Peter Andre in a wig. So, guys on a variety of super-Strats amplified to simulate wild abandon unnecessarily hurl scales at advancing walls of indie oiks and sees what sticks? Not exactly but pretty much. So one time Dio mechanical spider slayer and rainbow arpeggiator on the drum riser Tracy G (sure, the first may have been Craig Goldie, indulge me, it’s Friday and I’m insolvent and sofa alone) perform a Massacre In Bridgetown which, while being basically unaware of what atrocities the poor place has visited upon him, suggests strongly it sure must suck like Warrington and be a place to extricate repulsive oiks to in quarantine to use for practicing grenade throwing and carpet bombing and the like, has made a welcome ear perforating squall like an obstreperous horde of pterodactyls ripping Trent Reznor’s windpipe out to use as a baton to conduct such ridiculously lavish fret-rippery as this, along with the power thrash pillager Toby Knapp and Darin J. Moore's flamenco-prog on Prognosis: Psychosis, all proving technical ecstasy is possible and can be commendable. However, any prayers for this to be an unlikely exercise in expelling the ghastly spectre of the likes of Joe Satriani and Tony MacAlpine are in short shrift. Swiftly shredded, if ya please. Many, like Mike Abdow and Jeremy Barnes are no fun, babe, unlike Blackmore’s ludicrously and in all likelihood accidentally, joyous romp through Beethoven’s Ninth. Sure, it all depends on whether you want histrionics in context like Angus and Randy (Rhoads, not Piper) or have a secret, or undiscovered, as yet unsatiated desire for aimless misuse of scales on an unhithero seen scale.
Stu Gibson

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