Motörhead The Wörld is Yours
Future PLC/Motörhead Music
If you’re an avid reader of Classic Rock magazine, you might consider Motörhead’s twentieth studio album, The Wörld is Yours, a December 2010 release, but for anyone waiting on the standard CD, it’s a January 2011 release, which really just means that no matter how you shake it, the transition from last year to this one was book-ended by a couple of nic-stained, heavy-ringed fists striking you hard and purposeful on either side of your mouth. A review at this stage of the game is ultimately pointless because, well, it’s Motörhead, which means it’s reliably metal and enviably Lemmy, through and through. But if you must know, it ceremoniously boasts predictable words in its song titles, like die, devils, rock n’ roll, snake, outlaw, and bitch, and rocks like a formulaic motherfucker. That’s what you get because that’s what you need. It’s as simple as that. I mean, you could not bother with it because you’ve heard it all before, but that would probably be pretty stupid because Motörhead is, as Lemmy says of rock n’ roll music (in the song of the same name), a true religion and will never let you down.
Check out the video for “Get Back in Line” from The Wörld is Yours!
Like an ancient call from deep within the foggy halls of some floating, forgotten, and fervent cosmic temple of metallurgy, the songs on Zoroaster’s third full-length, Matador, swim between sludge-drenched doom, nerve-rattling drone, and psych-metal mayhem, creating one bastard of a heavy, hypnotic ride. This isn’t just music you hear, buddy, this is music you see. It pulses and surges like a snake swallowing a beehive, it moves in nocturnal, amphibious rhythms, it explodes and flows like an active volcano. On previous efforts, Dog Magic and Voice of Saturn, Zoroaster stayed the low-end course of doom, rarely varying from the path of heaviest resistance, but Matador sees the Atlanta trio free-forming their way through meditative expanses of earth-swallowing sound and noise. Dig the title track, “D.N.R.,” “Odyssey” and “Old World” for the freakiest, Om meets Kyuss examples, while the songs “Ancient Ones,” “Trident,” and “Black Hole” spit out those classic Zoroaster riffs, which sound like High on Fire wallowing in a tub of fuzz. This is a potent, mesmerizing, and audacious heavy metal album, my friends, and tailor-made for anyone with a beard.
I’m in a room that’s been built up by four walls of sound. It’s an old room, as old as Ararat, and holds twice as many secrets. Miles of black cords lay tangled like electric snakes on the large Arabian rug that covers the floor. A thick fog of nag champa and dope hangs from the ceiling like a swamp ghost. Crates filled with vinyl, vases filled with dead flowers. Animal skulls with black pearls for eyes. It’s a palace of doom, this room, a den of grooves. My beard feels like it’s a mile long. How heavy my beard is. The walls have started to move and the snakes have set themselves to strike. I recall the distant smell of morning’s wood as I sink into a planet caravan mood. I’m in Sweden. No, I’m in heaven. I’m miles from home, wherever I am. Things are getting fuzzy now. The room shakes like an angry god. IT SHAKES LIKE AN ANGRY GOD. Three naked black witches with legs that go on for miles float by me. I reach out to touch the stars in their hair, but before I can grab on to the universe they’ve offered me, they’re gone. I won’t dare leave this room until they blow back on through. This room, strange and powerful, has one hell of a view.
Motörhead
Zoroaster
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