Author: Sandi Sadar Šoba
Artist: Clutch
Label: Weathermaker Music Records
Release: 2004
Runtime: 54:31
Rating: 5/5
Would you agree that these days precious few people have a spine sturdier than your average Haribo gummy bear, even though hard times demand someone upright, decisive and above all critical, and society needs modern-day prophets who can call a spade a spade? The bearded Maryland outlaws Clutch are anything but spineless. They packed in enough explosives and lit big enough fires a while back that depravity should have gone up in smoke ages ago. These sludge-grimy bluesmen have practically everything: punch, bite, and music soaked in soul and swagger, which is plenty to make you fall in love in one go. Yet the bulk of the herd, your average sheep, is still in the dark and doesn’t even know something good is out there, and for a pinch of soulful salt, that’s where independent media like us come in. Right around the ninth anniversary of their sixth record Blast The Tyrant, I set out on a trip down memory lane and started fanning the still damn hot embers.
Under the surface hides a gorgeous, robust pearl that’s worth sinking your teeth into. This treasure chest holds nearly an hour of quality compositions that back up the claim that miracles are possible! Neil Fallon is the artist of debauchery and boozy rage, if I may be a bit obscene. Besides his raspy, piercing vocals, you’ll catch the groove of Gaster’s wonderful drums, the guitar excursions of the playfully brilliant Tim Sult, the subtle humming bass of Dan Maines, and if we toss in the undertone of a Hammond … Then with Machine behind the production, the drool flows in rivers, my dear ones! The record is made up of fifteen gems, like a diamond carbon structure that doesn’t crumble for a single second on an epic journey of settling scores with tyrants and politics. Besides slogans against dumbing down and the hegemony of all-powerful profiteering capital, there are tons of good music that move you into a state of primal dancing or the much-needed revolt. And false ideals get dragged through the mud from the very first moment!
With Mercury, Clutch warn all the modern-day Daedaluses that their kids are falling out of the sky, because the sun of media, political and capitalist indoctrination blinded them and fried their wings. The collapse of values, the market crash and the recession we’re witnessing today prove that some ears stay deaf despite the warnings. Profits OF Doom carries on with a sarcastic declassification of the system, telling the story of sons who, despite their mothers’ praises, fall into the chain of modern-day voluntary slavery to banking cartels, capitalists and keepers of the seven seals of the new world order. The narration is sharp and holds nothing back! Fallon casts out the devil, and Clutch wrap the new gospel of exorcistic excellence in a damn tasty package of aural beauty. Fallon gets more openly dark bar by bar, and as his naturally pale complexion darkens, the dance only intensifies. The Mob Goes Wild is a tune where an iconoclastic settling of scores with the false norms of the promised America mingles with dance rhythms, and Fallon, among other things, suggests moving north to a more humane Canada.
Cool! And the climax just keeps rolling on, even though the songs deliberately end half-finished. Cypress Grove is a rhythmically lively soundtrack for all the lovers of beautifully flawed girls and the redneck fans of chrome, souped-up cars, pickups and drinking serenades. A sexy description of a party tailored to all the “real men” is the overture to the stoner groove of Promoter. One of the lesser-known but no less delicious highlights of the record is downright filthy and cheeky, and with its slower rhythm the thunderous spirit of rebellion and gasoline fumes doesn’t let up, while the blues standards are fully satisfied in the very next track! Make no mistake: The Regulator is no melancholy surrender to the blues-induced blues, and for all their fascination with blues scales, Clutch are still closer to the hard, solid foundations of rock than to delta blues acoustics. The dreamy guitars, the acoustic and its flanger-dreamy electrified sister are magically intertwined, and the repetitive verses grow with hypnotic power into choruses that aren’t exactly earth-shattering, but there’s no shortage of edge and solidity in the whole weave of guitars, organ, bass and drums.
Worm Drink is proof that the American South is fascinated with brewing sinfully strong boozy concoctions. The whiff of one glass too many doesn’t bother you in the slightest, and unlike Morrison’s Whiskey Bar, Fallon invites you into a more smoky parlor of his manly abode. After rivers of tequila, your backside won’t be burning this time, because instead of chugging it dry, Clutch made sure things stay lubricated with a juicy, not-at-all-hiccupping sound and naturally unforced solos. No sermonizing here, and the U2-reminiscent activism of Army Of Bono offers R.A.T.M.-style rhythm instead of dripping molasses and sugar, along with lyrics that are by now fully accepted as redneck. They stay socially aware, but in no way preachy in the usual churchy way, where a priest promises you paradise from the pulpit, because Clutch don’t hand out indulgences for laziness! The brave new world is seen this time through the merciless eyes of people from the social margins, and instead of suits in ties, it’s simple, honest men and loyal followers of the “lower class” who end up on the red carpet, the working class used to grind and sweat. And the music is just like that too, positively reeking of sweat, blood and testosterone. Spleen Merchant pushes the drunken debauchery to the max with blows of distortion and a hint of cowbells, and the breather is only there to keep you devoted to the true cause on the mission of loud rebellion against the system!
(In The Wake Of) The Swollen Goat is a loud demand for information and clear answers, echoing the ever louder voice of the people. The destruction of the new world order of just five despots is a clear-cut wet dream, and Clutch announce a cataclysm and a universal flood that you can only look forward to while listening! Weathermaker is just an in-between, a stopover, the first sermon, assuring you there’s enough power in the background to make it happen as soon as possible, while Subtle Hustle invites you to a new wild party and to pushing the limits of your alcohol tolerance for another two miles of survival! Ghost is a rather cool-headed touch of a ballad, but it hits the spot after the stampede of passion, and the record gets just enough needed softness so the tornadoes of passion don’t overeat themselves. Clutch then open the book of records from the age of witch hunts and remember La Curandero, a girl who gave herself over to dancing on black sand. The herds of sheep sentence her to death by drowning in the river Styx, and not even Cerberus’s shadow can lay her to eternal rest, and Clutch tell the story in a way that lets you identify with this rebel devoted to her passion and her own pulse of difference, even if Mother Nature equipped you with extra equipment and a squirt gun … Clutch have the mojo that in the closing finale rivals the peaks of The Who, Deep Purple and all the orators of the “demonoid hard rock” of the seventies. And to make sure the last drop of soulful extract is truly squeezed out, the instrumental closing act of WYSIWYG takes care of it. You’ll ride off satisfied and grinning toward the blood-red sunset and drown all your worldly worries without a shred of mercy for the oligarchs and oppressors in high places.
Picture the flames of a burning empire of octopuses and capitalist autocrats rising to the sky, their palaces starting to shake under the blows of critical masses who know how to think for themselves and are shouting in every language of this world: “Enough! We’ve had it! You’re done!” Clutch are among the loudest voices in that choir, and after almost ten years, neither the rebellious spirit nor the not-in-the-least-juvenile record has gone flat, and it easily becomes your favorite companion every single day. Blast The Tyrant is made for exactly that, and despite hefty doses in the past, I haven’t overdosed on it myself, so the theory, tried and tested, can work in practice too, and how damn beautifully it can!
Lineup
Neil Fallon– vocals, guitar, keyboards
Tim Sult – guitar
Dan Maines –bass
Jean-Paul Gaster –drums
Production
Machine & Clutch
Tracklist
- Mercury
- Profits Of Doom
- The Mob Goes Wild
- Cypress Grove
- Promoter (Of Earthbound Causes)
- The Regulator
- Worm Drink
- Army Of Bono
- Spleen Merchant
- (In The Wake Of) The Swollen Goat
- Weather Maker
- Subtle Hustle
- Ghost
- (Notes FromThe Trial Of) La Curandera
- WYSIWYG
