Alice in chains greatest hits tpb full#

All of which leads to unanswerable questions of intent: gutsy self- examination, wolf-crying sensationalism or queasy self- exploitation? Tragedy is ideal source material for art, but itРІР‚в„ўs highly unsettling to hear a band in the middle of a crisis fill an album with reports on how bad it feels. РІР‚СљAh, whatРІР‚в„ўs the difference IРІР‚в„ўll die/In this sick world of mine,РІР‚Сњ Staley sings in РІР‚СљSickman,РІР‚Сњ and echoes that thought in nearly every song. (As explicit as it gets: РІР‚СљWhatРІР‚в„ўs my drug of choice?/Well, what have you got?/I donРІР‚в„ўt go broke and I do it a lot.РІР‚Сњ) Appalling in their death obsessions and relentless wretchedness, songs like РІР‚СљGod Smack,РІР‚Сњ РІР‚СљHate to FeelРІР‚Сњ and РІР‚СљJunkheadРІР‚Сњ wallow miserably without any promise of long-term redemption. WhatРІР‚в„ўs more memorable about Dirt, however, is its unguarded (if obliquely cast) Staley diaries of drug addiction. The songs arenРІР‚в„ўt musically involving as such, but the intensity and density of their performances gives them an effectively menacing aura. Taking structural cues from Metallica and Pearl Jam (and getting an assist from SlayerРІР‚в„ўs Tom Araya), Alice in Chains and producer Dave Jerden fry up a sizzling metal platter with a thunderous bottom (credit bassist Mike Starr and drummer Sean Kinney) on Dirt lockstep riffs move songs along like machinery performing intricate and repetitive assembly line maneuvers. (MudhoneyРІР‚в„ўs Mark Arm, who doesnРІР‚в„ўt emit Plant-like noises in public, also sings along.) Inarticulating his programmatic bleak vision in РІР‚СљAm I Inside,РІР‚Сњ Staley sticks the only memorable hook here into РІР‚СљBlack is all I feel/So this is how it feels to be free.РІР‚Сњ The unlisted fifth track is a pastiche of dance-hall piano, silly samples, industrial pounding and sound effects that teases a surprising lighter side from a generally dismal band. The five new songs on Sap amplify the bandРІР‚в„ўs Led Zep exertions with ruminative rusticity (РІР‚СљBrother,РІР‚Сњ the all- acoustic РІР‚СљRight TurnРІР‚Сњ), moody bluesiness (РІР‚СљGot Me WrongРІР‚Сњ) and not-the-real-thing-but-big-fans guest appearance by Chris Cornell of Soundgarden and the dreadful Ann Wilson of Heart. Trotting out one of the hoariest clichР“В©s in the punkmetal phrase book and setting the agenda for much of what follows, guitarist/songwriter Jerry Cantrell has singer Layne Staley open the thuggish bore that is Facelift by declaring РІР‚СљWe Die Young.РІР‚Сњ Attempting poetry-as-a-second-language, the songs rock hard in the service of such lunkheaded lines (some attributable to the vocalist) as РІР‚СљWalls of thought, strong and high/As my castle crumbles with timeРІР‚Сњ and РІР‚СљHere I sit writing on the paper/Trying to make the words you canРІР‚в„ўt ignore.РІР‚Сњ Such inanity would be excusable if the music supplied the missing imagination or wit, but Facelift is dismayingly consistent in that regard. If it wasnРІР‚в„ўt for bad shit, Alice in Chains wouldnРІР‚в„ўt have no shit (to sing about) at all.

Mediocre to the core and with at least one member regrettably quick to make the same heroin mistake as misguided Charlie Parker acolytes seeking unattainable inspiration via substance abuse, the quartet owes its dramatic tug to the personal messes chronicled on its records.

Alice in chains greatest hits tpb full#

That leaves Alice in Chains, predestined by its torpid unoriginality to contentedly embody dumb-rock as if the РІР‚в„ў70s were still in full swing.

Soundgarden wants to be the serious modern equal to its idol, gods of РІР‚в„ў90s thunder, while Pearl Jam strives to nullify the issue with compelling faith in its own individuality. While the third category produced the erratic tradition-busting of Mudhoney and Nirvana, the first two yielded Tad, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam, retroids whose essential differences from vintage metal have less to do with the sound of music than their distinctive senses of self and purpose. The regionРІР‚в„ўs burgeoning hard-rock scene comes in three varieties: ex-punks who worship Led Zeppelin, non-punks who worship Led Zeppelin and permanent punks who just donРІР‚в„ўt give a fuck. Then came Page, Plant, Bonham and Jones to trample the line away with abusive drumming, super riffology and screaming id-iocy crossed with rustic acoustics, intricately ambitious arrangements and lyrics sprung from sources other than horror movies and superhero comics.Р”Р‡lash forward to the American Northwest, circa 1989. Despite some overlap (Deep Purple), it was pretty easy to tell which hard-rock bands were seeking to beat audiences into submission and which ones were expecting credit for melody, dynamics and at least a pretense of innovation.

It was all so simple before Led Zeppelin.