Dio
Angry Machines (Mayhem)
by Scott Hefflon
Ronnie James Dio has “the voice.” It’s undeniable. Even those who’ve always found his powerful lungs and warbly presentation almost as goofy as his runtish stature cannot escape the fact that the little guy in black has one helluva voice. Many have imitated, but none has matched it. Kinda like Ozzy, Bruce Dickenson (ah, how the kings of heavy metal have fallen!), and modern-day singers like Cobain, Reznor, and Chris Cornell (let’s not go so far as Vedder, Alanis, and that Bush posterboy, huh?), there is no question who you’re listening to. Instantly recognizable voices differentiate a signature from just another name with a vocal credit. And Dio is a signature. He’s still got the power he had in 1970 when he formed Elf, later opening for Deep Purple and forming Rainbow with guitarist Richie Blackmore, then fronting Black Sabbath for Heaven and Hell, Mob Rules, and Live Evil (and evidently returning in ’90 for Dehumanizer), finally going solo and recording Holy Diver, Last In Line, Sacred Heart, Intermission, Dream Evil, Lock Up The Wolves, Strange Highways, and now Angry Machines. Some of this sound familiar? Two and a half decades of RJD thundering on about demons and castles and stuff, you’d think he’d finally get it out of his system. Perhaps he has.
Angry Machines is, as they say in the b.s. biz, a “departure” from Dio’s tried and true lyrical imagery. Or is that truly tired? Whatever. This record also employs a “stellar” line-up of “veteran” musicians. That’s to say they’re a bunch of old farts whose bands have long since dried up and left us alone, yet seeing as how they’re off the smack and can’t O.D. like a self-respecting, post-hip musician should, they wander the Earth as has-beens, searching for a dark corner to shrivel into. Drummer Vinnie Appice has been the backbone of Dio for close to a decade. The same decade, coincidentally, that I steered clear of post-D & D-oriented bands such as this. While a resumé for the aging stickster didn’t come with the hype sheet, I know too much off the top of my head for my own good. (I can’t mention King Kobra without my throat constricting, needing immediately to be flushed with potent fluids.) Bassist Jeff Pilson used to be in Dokken. Any questions? I don’t recognize guitarist Tracy G.’s name, but he could’ve shortened it in disgrace, or perhaps I just have a large mental block for a very good reason. I seem to recall RJD having a young virtuoso guitarist at some point, but that was quite a while ago when every limping metal band had a new, young, flashy whiz kid.
Angry Machines is a rather ironic title coming from Daddy Dio with his mansion on the hill and vintage sports car in the garage (I’m guessing). The music and lyrical concepts mesh with contemporary music, well, not at all. Despite striving to tackle such topic as youthful isolation, divorce (and other topics parents feel kids won’t understand), paranoia, insanity, and dreams of a better world, Dio still sounds like he’s singing “Look out! The sky is falling down!” and other such absurdities. The man is famous for making us believe he’s the man on the silver mountain, that the world is full of kings and queens who blind your eyes and steal your dreams, not to mention that thing about a rainbow in the dark. Sure, it made a swell Budweiser commercial (does anyone besides me remember that?), but Ronnie, big guy, c’mon now. Musically, Angry Machine trudges out of the starting gate so slowly I initially wondered if I had the CD player set at the wrong speed. Dio-vu. But no, eventually the pacemakers pick up to the speed of dripping molasses. “Don’t Tell The Children” begins with an oh-so-impressive drum intro before launching into a swaggering glam guitar chug (complete with squawking harmonics) which then settles into your basic bare-bones thrash riff. Dio-core? Thrash went the way of the dodo, dumdum. At least in places with modern conveniences like running water and VCRs to tape Beavis & Butthead episodes you’d otherwise miss.
Look, I’ll admit I’m about as thrilled by the resurgence of powermetal as I am about getting crabs again. Furthering this metaphor is, understandably, making me squirm. Then again, so does most powermetal. Post-grunge metal is one thing. Learning from your predecessor’s mistakes is called evolution. But allowing a lumbering dinosaur to breed or even inspire similar species to shamble up from the depths of the basement rehearsal room cannot be allowed for the sake of the community. Let the dottering, near-sighted geezer stumble around for a bit and get some fresh air, then help him back into his deathbed, wish him well, and then get the fuck on with your life.
