Weatherhead

VINYL FORMAT. Helms Alee's sophomore album, Weatherhead, could turn any cultural critic into a historical revisionist. Let's pull the buckshot back through the maw of a 20th century icon. Let's reassemble the bloody mess and set a disenfranchised young man on a different trajectory, one devoid of celebrity and tragedy. Let's re-envision the last twenty years. The other crucial variables can remain in place – hair metal still choked on its own excess, the beguiling mixed-gender vocal harmonies and alternating jangle and clang of the Pixies still seduced college radio, the antagonistic sludge of the Melvins continued to rumble across the globe, and the orchestrated discord of Sonic Youth still proved noise could hold artistic merit. But, punk never broke, never became a cliché. Do you buy into Tolstoy's belief that the individual is a mere pawn in history's master plan? Would the lineage of rock music have found another reluctant voice of a generation?

Given the history of the last two decades and the deepening sense that melody and muscle compromise one another, Weatherhead becomes heroic. It's not just gallant in intent, but in sound. Granted, heroism is subjective; listeners are bound to have their own preferred reverberations to conjure an inspired rallying cry. But Helms Alee's gamut of timbres – from the most guttural, blown-out roar to the most graceful lilting melody – summon a sense of triumph, empowerment, and conquest. The relentless chugging fuzz and vocal harmonies of "Elbow Grease," the concrete thrust of the central riff of "8/16," the thunderstruck arpeggio of "Pretty As Pie," the siren song of "Pig Pile," the unbridled scuzz of "Ripper No Lube," and the alternating agit-punk and anthemic approach of the title track all reinforces Helms Alee's position as masters of the diametrically opposed tactics. They are the true heroes and heroines of the loud-quiet-loud.