heavy metal

We’ve discussed on these pages before the talent of Wes Borland and the underground metal community’s grudging respect for the sole interesting member of Limp Bizkit.

The proliferation of media means that bands can't merely be bands anymore. Everyone needs some sort of a gimmick, whether it be sound or image. Four or five guys wearing jeans and playing instruments won't capture anyone's attention, not with the cornucopia of options the consumer has at their disposal. Perhaps this helps explain the decline in relevancy rock music has encountered in recent years.

One of the greatest benefits that has come about as a result of the shifting nature of the music business is the establishment of a relative meritocracy. If a band is good enough, no matter where they come from, and no matter if they are signed to a label or not, word will spread and they will find an audience. At no time has there ever been such an ability to hear music from all corners of the earth, to uncover the gems that in earlier days would have remained hidden forever.

Fozzy is a band that has no right being successful. The combination of Rich Ward from rap-metal stalwarts Stuck Mojo, and wrestling superstar and lifelong metal fan Chris Jericho, topped off with a ludicrous back story explaining that they were the true legends of heavy metal whose songs had been stolen, was the sort of joke that was barely funny the first time you hear it, and only gets worse with repetition. But a funny thing happened along the way, and Fozzy somehow turned not only into a serious project, but one that garnered plenty of acclaim for all involved.

There's something about the Viking heritage that makes every bit of music that plays off it seem larger than life. No matter the genre, songs about the ancient warriors give songs a grander scope, a larger vision, the kind of epic scale that can sometimes make us forget exactly what we're listening to. I rarely doubt the sincerity of artists, but there are surely bands on the scene that know the effect that can be gleaned from a gimmick like this.

Storming out of the country-dominated southern United States, Whitechapel has been on a mission to carve themselves a niche and a name in the greater heavy metal universe. Signed to Metal Blade Records and ready to take on all comers, the band is included with the Rockstar Energy Drink Mayhem Festival, supporting their new self-titled album. Guitarist Ben Savage took the time to answer some of our questions backstage after the band’s set.

Among the dozens of factors that can impact the effect music has on us, geography cannot be ignored. Whether its the pull of a hometown act, or the joy in discovering music you love that comes from a world away, it does matter where the music we listen to comes from. Often, the music is indistinguishable enough that its a trivial factor that gets lost amid the more important details, but there are times when the origin of the music is intrinsic to not only how we hear it, but to what it is at all.

Asking Alexandria was technically asked to open the main stage, but in reality, they were ex post facto to Anthrax, and began performing as soon as the veteran band had finished. As such, double A (not Arn Anderson,) was forced to deal with the nearly impossible task of playing to a transitory audience. They had completed “Welcome,” and were through a good portion of “Closure” before the bulk of the crowd moving from one stage to another had even had their tickets checked.

The Rockstar Energy Drink Mayhem Festival is an event practically out of its time. A traveling commercial, musical carnival in the era when all merchandise is available online and every conceivable form of entertainment, from live performances to shocking freakery, can be accessed by those with a broadband connection. Beyond that, it is also one of the last of the dying breed of road-bound music festivals, surviving in the post-Ozzfest, re-created Lollapalooza era.

As the 90's drew to a close, the state of rock music was slipping into a state of decay. It was lazy to conflate all modern rock bands, sentencing them to live under the title 'post-grunge', but there was always a grain of truth to be found in the stereotype. After the grunge movement came and went, the color had been sucked from the palate, and rock music became a bland canvas where every painter assembled their art from the same template.