Let this be warning enough to the casual listener that this is not music for the faint-hearted or melody loving. This one nasty, noisy little sucker that demands certain tastes be present for maximum effect. This is Big Black… Click here for previous columns from The Wildhearts’ mainman.

BIG BLACK: Songs About Fucking
Touch & Go (1987)

Before his legendary tenure in the producer’s seat for Nirvana’s ‘In Utero’, and famously being fired for making that album sound typically less commercial than band and label wanted, Steve Albini was the mastermind behind one of the noisiest bands ever to demand the purchase of paracetamol, but more on that a little later.

Albini, whose production credits range from Manic Street Preachers’ latest, Journal For Plague Lovers, to the Pixies, Surfa Rosa (with his no-nonesense approach to life and work detailed with no greater clarity than here) is an opinionated and largely pro-artist maverick. Albini’s trademark raw, analogue soundscapes have rendered even Led Zeppelin and Cheap Trick uncompromising sonic terrorists, and judging by his giraffes neck list of production credits his love of his art is without question. Charging the same amount per session, whether you’re an independent band or on a major label, means that his reputation as a producer of the people is as untarnished as his production techniques are grubby masterpieces.

And before he became knob twiddler for those demanding a raw result Steve Albini fronted arguably the most offensive aural scatterbomb of industrial based live performance in the history of American noise.

Big Black, a name still so fearsome to some sensibilities that love is often hard to find for this unit, have been known to clear a room full of hardened punk and extreme metal aficionados for simply being too noisy (believe me, I was that DJ). Those in the know, however, revere this outfit with the same reverend tones as Christian evangelists save for the big guy upstairs taking care of the money worries.

Albini’s anti-love song stance, along with Frank Zappa’s equally unemotional approach, was the basis for The Wildhearts’ original nihilistic style of songwriting, and Big Black’s ‘Songs About Fucking’ was a huge influence on our universally hated album ‘Endless Nameless’.

Let this be warning enough to the casual listener that this is not music for the faint-hearted or melody loving. This one nasty, noisy little sucker that demands certain tastes be present for maximum effect.

Formed in Illinois in the very early 80’s, Big Black stood against everything that was sonically acceptable in modern punk music, pre-dating the industrial movement by years and providing an anarchic, no-wave blue print for the likes of NIN and Ministry to follow in their assault on the senses. Shows would end in smashed gear and fireworks being set off in the audience, while the band (featuring Dave Riley on bass and Santiago Durango on guitar, as well as a drum machine named, conveniently, Roland) played at nose-bleed volumes that would test even the most ardent of supporters.

I first heard this band on the John Peel show, and after hearing that Mr Peel would be literally moved to tears by the initial sounds of Ramones and Cocteau Twins I was delighted to be moved in the same way by the panzer attack of Big Black’s ‘Bad Penny’ (or was it ‘L Dopa’?) as it came charging through the radio speakers. Floored and spent, Big Black affected me in a way entirely unlike any other musical force up until that point, and I live to feel such a twisted love repeat its thorny invasion of my comfort zone.

I recall seeing the original cover for their Headache EP in Camden Market and falling in love with how uncompromising this band were. (uncensored image presented here at viewer’s risk). The music, lyrics and imagery represented everything that was ugly about the world, and once upon a time (along with underground anti-zine Answer Me) this was everything I needed in art.

Warnings aside, let’s delve into this most visceral of aural thrills.

‘The Power Of Independent Trucking’ and a cover of Kraftwerk’s ‘The Model’ open the album with a volley of uncharacteristic subtlety, establishing the oddball marriage of screeching guitars and rumbling drum machine with Albini’s trademark sneering vocals before launching into the bass intro for ‘Bad Penny’, with just enough time before your happy place is invaded by a plague of broken glass and shrapnel as the brutality of Big Black finally erupts.

Noise invades from every corner of the psyche as razorblade riffs compete in staccato based chaos overseen by Albini’s delightfully angry vocals. This is not punk as you know it, nor it is metal or industrial. This is the originator. The storm before the storm. Primal and fresh with authentic evil.

As quickly as the exhilarating rush that is ‘Bad Penny’ fades into shattered climax comes the devastating, full-on assault that is ‘L Dopa’. Raping and defiling expectations this is a purely bad taste drive-thru of Led Zeppelin riffs played at breakneck speed, and they’re all the more perfect for it. This model of dirty, chugging blasts of guitar has been repeated by Al Jourgensen to equally breathtaking, although never greater effect, most noticeably on ‘Jesus Built My Hotrod’. ‘L Dopa’, like the title would suggest, is a drug like rush to the central nervous system that is as addictive as it is disorientating.

‘Precious Thing’ opens up like ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ (the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey) before hitting its own supernova as it opens up into an airtight fusing of disparate elements, all vying for prime position in a vicious squall. Beautiful and ugly, in parallel equal.

‘Columbian Necktie’ (named after the delicious South American style of assassination wherein the victim has their throat cut open and their tongue pulled through the gaping slit) begins in almost 70s glam stomp fashion, bringing to mind one of the more upbeat hooks of Rocket From The Crypt, then shifts into a panoramic spread of the most melodic industrial noise.

Big Black, for all their love of extremity can surely write a sweet tune. Seriously, there beats a heart of pure pop within this cyborgian nightmare of clashing, clanking sounds that makes the experience an oddly emotional one.

The lurching bass riff that pins down ‘Kitty Empire’ is a menacing threat of impending impact that, cleverly, never comes. Building on a solitary theme ‘Kitty Empire’ is the only song that exceeds the three minute mark, making its execution almost unbearably tense, presumably by design.

‘Ergot’, by comparison, is an explosive charge that seems to misfire in an dizzying intro of abrasive stabs before the song detonates into a convulsive riff, only to return to its stop-start origins with disorientating ease. The end effect is akin to being brought to orgasm using barbed wire and ground glass.

Big Black never make easy listening and although perseverance yields great rewards the average listener will get very little on first spin, possibly only a headache, but for those hardy enough to make it through to the other side there is bliss, sheer bliss, in spades.

‘Kasimir S. Pulaski Day’ is another slow burner based on a simple, thinly disguised Zeppelin styled riff over a booming drum machine beat which twists and expands without ever catching fire, which it never really needs to, that’s the job of ‘Fish Fry’, which closely follows it, dragging the listener back into the boiling metallic fray that is the signature of this deranged band. Bulldozing beats and driving bass swing with screaming guitars and spat-out lyrics of hate and disgust creating the now familiar bleak high that is Big Blacks trademark sound. ‘Fish Fry’ crams all the cathartic anger you’ll ever need into just over two minutes.

Still, little of this intensity will prepare you for ‘Pavement Saw’, next, which is just about the nastiest thing on what has to be described as a pretty downbeat album! Awesomely pissed off, this is the nearest thing to a love song on the entire album, albeit the, very, dark side of love where rejection meets psychotic reaction. Brilliant and abrasive, I’d love to cover this song someday.

‘Tiny, King Of The Jews’ is a superbly moody piece of well constructed black noise that revisits 2001: A Space Odyssey in ultra-dark fashion. Like a cavernous precursor to the gloomy anti-gospel of Spiritualized this is a powerful surge of energy that sets up the perfect ending for this subversively flavoured delight of an album.

And as the closing strains of ‘Tiny…’ fade the final colossus that is, ironically titled, ‘Bombastic Intro’ is the absolute last word in titanic guitar riffs wound tightly to deafening drum machine. All 36 seconds of it!

The CD edition of this album ends with the welcome addition of bonus track ‘He’s A Whore’, the Cheap Trick classic from their first, self titled album. The song works perfectly given the Big Black treatment, a shining example of classic songwriting, and a wonderful insight into the secret, pop/rock-loving mind of Steve Albini.

As previously stated, with intent, this album is not for everyone’s tastes. The deafening drum machine will put off as many people as it will enthrall, and the bleak nature of the subject matter mixed with the shrill attack of the guitars will be at once one mans ‘bloody racket’ as it will another persons sonic nirvana (sic).

If you do happen to fall into the latter category you shall be rewarded with the realisation that not only are you not alone in your twisted blackness but even at your most screwed tight there is art in the world that is created by people even more fucked up than you. Art that can soothe the savage temperament and make sense, once again, of a confusing world of mass contradiction.

If, however, you reside the the former camp you might want to not only invest in the aforementioned headache pills but you should probably avoid the operation of heavy machinery and resist social interaction for a short while afterwards. The disturbing after effects of Big Black can’t be underestimated.

This is one review that I can’t wait to see the comment section for. Please leave a message after the beep, squeal, boom, yell and crunch…