Cornetto Love? Perhaps Blah Blah Bleh

The middle one is my favourite. Nice, um, accent.

"I tried my best and I have no regrets at all."

No, this isn’t about that dude who single-handedly cemented the fate of all Chinese geeks that they can’t sing for shit but rather my attempts at attracting the opposite sex (I’ve gotten some looks from gay men before and it’s really not the most pleasant feeling in the world). This is about a show which has just concluded and declared its “winners”. A series with more twist than Twisties, the show had garnered a loyal following of about a dozen people and all of them were on the show.

Would I enter a contest—a show on TV—to find love? I can’t really say for sure. My personal opinion is that these kinds of shows merely perpetrate the notion of finding love rather than cultivating it. How can any sane, gorgeous, smart and oh so lovely woman, choose a guy after 12 episodes? These guys have to strut, play the fool, entertain like a court jester, charm like snake charmer to win their way into the heart of their desired woman. It’s like how animals want to reproduce. Female peacocks don’t choose the more caring males who are sensitive, they choose the male that can impress them the most. The bigger the tail, the better.

We’ve finally reached the end of Cornetto’s Love? Perhaps. A show that had built itself considerable suspense and enough intrigue to keep most people interested but the grand finale, the shocking climax, ended up being the mother of anticlimaxes. It was humdrum at its most humdrum. Nothing surprised me. It was all way too much and far too little. It’s a show that is both silly and puzzling and somewhat demeaning. Oh yes, there was the obligatory back-stabbing, clandestine alliances, and the gorgeous host who tried in desperation to keep the wheels of suspense turning even though it was flat right from the get-go. She’s gorgeous all right but really, she should be doing something else other than hosting.

One of the taglines of the show was “Play the game of love and be a winner,” or something to that fact, I don’t really remember on account of the absurdity of it all and me watching Amazing Race. But is love a game? Personally, I would never call it that. I’m pretty old-fashioned when it comes to the matters of the heart even though I’m a metalhead with one of the metal of hearts.

Imagine if you’re the “winner”. What are you going to say to people, that I won a goddamn show and here’s my girlfriend who’s also the grand prize? But let’s stop for a while and eat my year’s supply of Cornetto’s. Would you be yourself?

A previous post of mine mentioned that:

I would I guess what I’m trying to say is that 99% of the time I’m very glad that my money is all mine to spend, but when the 1% does happen, I do wish I had a special someone to share it with.

Thanks to Lia, the above is juvenile and silly and I didn’t think it through properly. The meaning was there, it was just worded in the most ghastly of sentences. You guys get the gist, right?

Here’s to the next season. 

Chimaira – Chimaira

American Karate. American Football. American Beauty. Ugh, the last one kind of doesn’t make sense.

What do those things have in common? What did you say? No, it’s not Bush and another gaffe but the fact that the word American is affixed to the front to describe a certain entity that is as American as to what anime is Japanese. When you say karate, you think of Japanese men with their long hair bundled neatly into a bun with their arms and legs poised to attack. When you say football, people around the world think of Manchester United (Yeah baby!), Brazil, Pele, and of course, David Beckham’s impeccable dress sense and girly voice. But when you see the American in American Karate is becomes a new beast. Instead of buns of hair you have mullets and a strong fondness for Rocky Mountain oysters. American Football is of course the only sport in the world celebrated in only one part of the world, America.

But what we have here ladies and rough-men is called American Metal. Quite simply put, American Metal is what Pantera is what Judas Priest is to metal. American Metal is a subgenre of metal characterised by its innate chugga-chugganess, harsh vocals (a cross between drunk and growling) and riffs reminiscent the Swedish Melodic Metal scene and of course, American sensibilities.

Chimaira, alongside Lamb of God and um, Trivium are the current leaders leading the American metal scene. What this means is that these bands have harsh vocals a teenage girl is capable of producing, melody lines that haven’t been cool for the last 10 years and generally disliked by more experienced, angrier-looking and truer metalheads. Yours truly, on the other hand, doesn’t give a flying shit about being true; if I hear something nice to my ears then I’ll say it’s nice.

Vocalist Mark Hunter has probably one of the most annoying voices in modern metal. Every time I hear his voice I am reminded of eunuchs before they became eunuchs. He’s a grown man, six-feet-tall, sports a mean-looking nose ring yet he sounds like a high school girl who took testosterone pills instead of those pills. The music is simple: growl here, growl there, somewhat catchy chorus, rehashed Metallica solos, end of song, NEXT! The biggest problem this album has is strangely their strongest element: the metalness. In their valiant attempt of trying to prove to the big boys that hey, we are metal godsdamnit! and we’re not like Slipknot! they’ve taken upon themselves to be as angry and tough as they can be. Sadly, those moments are few and unsatisfactory. Opener Nothing Remains merely hints as to what may from these Oakland natives. It is mid-pace, with the drummer initiating a tribal groove before the fade-in effects kick-in and there you have it, Chimaira’s transformation from pseudo metal punks to bona fide metal mongers. The rest of the album follows a strict formula that works occasionally.

Somewhat major gripe: When you have Kevin Talley, who in my opinion is the new drum god, you’re not supposed restrain him. He’s a hard-hitting, don’t give two shits, bloody fast drummer who in his previous stint as Dying Fetus’s skinbasher, pummelled the listener while at the same time executing highly technical chops with panache of a bear in a tutu. It’s like asking Jackie Chan to be careful when he jumps from a two-storey building. To him, it’s like skipping rope!

I think Chimaira hoped that this album would be their ticket to metal stardom. Wrong. While the direction they’re heading is the right one, they’ve got quite a long way to go before they can release their own Reign in Blood or Master of Puppets. Better luck next time guys.

Initial Review: 6/10

Current Review: 5/10

In Flames – Clayman

I remember clearly the day I bought this album. It was getting darker by the minute. The bright day was transformed into a gloom that made everyone depressed. The minibus (gosh I miss those days) driver was madder than normal. The lady who took my order of fish-and-chips was acting all weird and moody (PMS can be a real pain). Even the street peddlers who were busy frying deep-fried things were all lugubrious.

Except for me.

That day would be the starting point for my evolution into the Chris that I am now. The album in question is the catalyst for it all. From humble beginnings as an ardent listener of long-dead classical composers, The Beatles, Elvis Presley and a host of other artistes my parents listened to and 80’s stuff from my sisters, I was about to embark on a totally new, and somewhat frightening musical endeavour. I was a chain-wearing, bespectacled wannabe ruffian, “nu-metal” purveyor (nu-metal does not exist, for the mere fact that it is not metal to begin with but that’s another story altogether), bored with all the Limp Bizkits, Korns, and other wimpy bands.

Before I decided to get this album, I did a lot of research to make sure that what I was about to buy wouldn’t leave me really pissed and RM70 poorer. I read countless reviews, comments and when I finally downloaded a song, I was instantly hooked. It was an experience like no other: the vocals were horrid, like a man pinching his throat, the drummer’s pounding the daylights out of his kit but it was the guitars; the melodies, the solos, the riffs, everything, that sealed the deal. I wanted it and I wanted it right now. And the rest is history.

As much as I abhor current In Flames, this album holds a very special place in my metal heart. With dubious songs titles such as Pinball Map (the aforementioned song I downloaded earlier), Swim, and Another Day in Quicksand, I owe my metalness to these songs. In school I was quietly and superiorly smug, I was different from the rest. While they were still drooling over rock infused with (c)rap, I was a man listening to real man’s stuff. While my friends were into hip-hop and easy listening rock bands like Incubus, Hoobastank (stupid name for a band), Papa Roach, in my CD player was underground metal from Sweden, the land of blonde bombshells and meaty meatballs.

Granted, this is the beginning of the end for these Swedish metallers. In hindsight, this is a sub par, hook driven album. It is essentially the metal equivalent of a pop album: the choruses are merciless in their catchiness, the riffs are no more the colourful work that drove their earlier releases now replaced with a desperate urge to make it catchy and jumpdafuckable. It just screams sell-out and is rightly so.

What’s interesting to note is that while this is a downright painful and embarrassing moment in my personal history, it must be said that without this sell-out album I wouldn’t be where I am now. So thank you In Flames, for setting me the foundation to bang my head silly, stick my tongue out, wield the devil horns like a man high on Red Bull and ultimately, the metalhead I am today.

Initial Review: 9/10

Current Review: 6/10

Megadeth – Rust in Peace

We all know Dave Mustaine’s story and its wretched, depressing spin-off, Megadeth. He was a Metallica guitarist right until the point he had one too many drinks, too stinking smashed to do anything cohesive that the other members bade a pitiless adieu to him. The parting was so acrimonious that Mustaine swore bloody vengeance upon the other members of Metallica. Since then a rancorous relationship developed with each band heading towards the same destination but on a different route. Megadeth relied heavily on their music and while the band got more technical, wrote better, thrashier riffs and songs they still failed to overtake Metallica’s meteoric rise and superior dominance. Metallica in contrast injected large doses of classical-inspired melodies and generally had a much more charismatic frontman in the form of James Hetfield. And it also didn’t help in Mustaine’s case that he still kept on drinking like a broken tap.

It was only after Metallica decided to abandon their thrash roots altogether and opted for a more commercial sound did Megadeth find themselves with an opportunity to surge ahead. To finally prove that they’re the better thrash metal band. The culmination of Mustaine’s earlier efforts together with an explosive guitar player heralded the coming of this magnum opus. It must be said that Mustaine’s ability on the guitar is undeniable. He unleashes thrash riffs of the highest order. But his vocals, oh my sweet Metal Gods, for a man’s man he sure sings like a boy about to broach puberty. His high-pitched, nasally, two-dimensional (it’s either whiny as heck or whiny as hell) vocal delivery is by far the most grating, maddening, exasperating, shit-filled I’ve heard in all my years of listening to metal. It single-handedly annihilates what could’ve been a perfect thrash metal album. I have no more words or antonyms to describe the terror of it. It really is bad. Thankfully, if it weren’t for the music and Friedman’s godly solos I would rather listen to the sound of drilling, be stuck in a sampan with waves as high as skyscrapers crashing on my head, have tigers roar in my ears and even pay William Hung to sing than listen to a single, horrifying Megadeth song.

Many will agree that the first two songs, Holy Wars...The Punishment Due and Hangar 18 truly belong in the echelons of thrash metaldom. The rest of the songs border between good and so-so, none of them seem to reach the aforementioned classics’ brilliance. Tornado of Souls while features only one solo from Friedman does a fine job of keeping it together. The next few songs are all right, nothing fancy, just thrashy as heck.

There is no denying that if it wasn’t for Mustaine and his impersonation of a boy discovering Playboy, Rust in Peace could have been in the top 5 of my favourite metal albums of all-time. But as it stands it manages a comfortable but disappointing top 10 finish.

If there’s only one Megadeth you’ll ever want to listen it’s this one, no question about that.

Initial Review: 8/10

Current Review: 8/10

“Whatever is left of me. Whatever I am. I’m yours.”

It's Casino Royale! Not Royal!

When I first heard that a bunch of Americans were going to portray decidedly very English characters in a certain fantasy movie about a powerful ring and little people who don’t wear Nike shoes I was incensed. No offence people (all you Americans, you know I love you all) but somehow English actors have a certain air (read: snooty, nose up in the air, humour drier than a desert) about them that no one has. I don’t have it, the only air I have comes from the south. But I was completely blown away when I saw the movie. All was forgiven. Except for one thing I still don’t quite agree, chiefly why the hell did Liv Tyler have to talk like she was a pseudo ethereal woman dying of boredom and why, in the name of all that is good, is Sam Gamgee a fat hobbit?

Then there was the terrifying-looking Dobby, the house elf from Harry Potter. I imagined Dobby to be like the batty-looking creature from a cartoon. You know, big floppy ears, huge eyes that glistened every time he recalled a sad story and basically looking like a cuddly, cute elf. But when I first laid eyes on the final product my expression was that of a guy who swallowed too many oranges at one go. It was hideous. It looked more like an imp, at first you think it’s harmless and wouldn’t harm you. Think again, it has claws. It has an evil-looking snout for crying out loud! It looked like it was going to drag you into depths of Hell, and make you watch reruns of Charmed for eternity.

So you see it all depends, sometimes your expectations can be shattered into a million pieces or you could leave the cinema with a smile on your face. Daniel Craig is by no means a metrosexual’s man. His face is craggy, the lines as thick as spaghetti and of course, the blond hair which is more brown than anything and is someone you can be friends with. But gosh damn he’s brutal. Pierce Brosnan is too much of a gentleman and is simply not as intense as Craig. That’s why he’s the best Bond since Sean Connery.

This is a Bond that is both soft and cold as steel all at the same time. There’s none of that swaggering stiff upper lip when he orders his martini and he doesn’t give a damn if it’s stirred or shaken. It’s just a very human Bond and a pair of very fitting Speedos. It’s probably the only Bond that I sort of feel for, a man so sure of himself that he needs to be sarcastic all the time so that people don’t make a mistake by calling him short. I also liked the fact that the villain wasn’t a diabolical, stark raving mad psycho bent on world domination. He’s just a darn good poker playes who weeps blood and has a thing for ropes with knobbly ends. Eva Green simply smokes, ‘nuff said.

I must point out that if you do watch this here in Malaysia, you’ll be sure to thank the censorship board for their much injudicious and downright potong steam (mood destroying) snip-happy fingers. And I also must add that the theme song from Chris Cornell is the best Bond song, period.

This review is pretty much superfluous, so just go and watch it now. It’s definitely worth it. I am looking forward to the next one. Till then, I’d love a martini shaken!

PS: German cars are too German, if you know what I mean. There’s nothing sexy about them. It’s Teutonic efficiency at its finest. Italian cars on the other hand are too sexy, lines slenderer than Heidi Klum’s silhouette and isn’t masculine enough. Therefore, Aston Martin is the perfect car for James Bond. It is quintessentially British, sleek yet not silky smooth, powerful but not overwhelming, and is gorgeously mean. What more can a man ask?