METAL 1
Forty years ago, on November 23rd, 1979, Public Image Ltd unleashed their second "album". Its initial release was in the UK, coming a year after their debut LP.
That "First Issue" had come at the tail end of 1978, a year which had begun with the infamous Sex Pistols disintegrating while wrapping up their one and only US tour. In the wake of that chaos and all the recriminations surrounding their demise, Johnny Rotten, now back to being John Lydon, went on vacation to Jamaica where he scouted reggae acts for Richard Branson before returning to the UK to get back to the business of making music himself. Once home, he recruited a couple of friends for his new venture; a bass player who didn't know how to play bass plus an ex-Clash guitarist. A quartet was completed with a Canadian drummer found via a music press classified ad. Together they knocked up an album which was greeted with a mixture of suspicion, contempt and occasional praise. It was an uneven affair, offering glimpses of genius when they'd been able to pay for proper studios and production, but it lagged in spots once the money ran out and they had to tack on rushed pieces recorded in budget studios. In at least one self declared case, they "only wanted to finish the album with a minimum amount of effort". It was a contentiously auspicious debut that demanded an unequivocal follow up for this entity to be taken seriously. So during the beginning months of 1979, PiL set about assembling new tracks while churning through drummers like toilet tissue.
Prior to it's release, Metal Box was buffered by two singles, Death Disco (issued in June) and Memories (in October). Both of these set the stage for what was to come, but no one was really prepared for the full force of the post-punk monolith which was about to descend. Recorded in fragmented sessions at various studios throughout the year, Metal Box rolled out of the gate while smashing it to pieces along the way. It was unlike anything anyone had seen or heard before, both in structure and content. Housed in a logo embossed circular metal canister, it contained three 12" 45rpm "singles" with a dozen tracks spread across them and a running time of about an hour. It posed questions on every level, from how to get the records out (they were so tightly housed, you'd have to shake the container and try not to scratch or drop them as they tumbled out), to what order to play them (play order was meant to be flexible) to what kind of stereo system was capable of reproducing the sound in the grooves (I personally know people who bought whole new audio systems in order to handle the extremes of bass and treble contained on those records).
Where their first LP had indicated movement into new musical directions, such as the nine minute dirge of Theme, it still retained remnants of what could legitimately be called "rock & roll" on songs like its title track and Annalisa. This new product, however, left those conventions behind on all fronts. There were elements of disco, dub, German "motorik", martial music, funk and some unidentified strains in the mix. That "mix", itself, was another thing all together. The bass was front and center, pushing the capacity of the medium to reproduce it. Guitars & synths buzzed, scraped and squalled in thin ribbons across the top. Drums were generally utilitarian, minimal and repetitive, providing support for the bass, but never offering too much flash. Kick drums were EQ'd with enough thud to pop needles out of the grooves and hi-hats sizzled with enough top end to fry bacon. Occasionally, a drum track was no more than a tape loop of a simple beat. Lydon's voice moaned and squeaked or screamed in vacant hallways, always sounding lost or distant. Even the editing of the tracks was fair game for mischief. Some tracks would abruptly cut off and bump into the next. Sometimes it sounded like the tape player was shut off or switched on as the music did a sharp pitch drop into a halt or lurched to a start. A song might trail off into the locked groove at the end of the record and either loop there indefinitely or be roughly snatched away by the auto-return kicking in on the tone arm. It all felt inside-out, like a building with the plumbing and wiring deliberately showing on the outside.
SECOND EDITION
It wouldn't be until early in 1980 that the album would find its way into my 16 year old hands in Canada. By then, it had been reissued in a more conventional double LP format, in a standard gate-fold cardboard sleeve, as "Second Edition". I remember going into Records on Wheels, which had opened up recently in a little strip mall next door to the Burger King where I worked, after my shift on a cold April day in Thunder Bay, ON. I spotted it instantly as I entered the shop and saw it on the wall in the new releases section by the entrance. I'd heard of PiL by then, but never heard them. The first LP was never released in Canada, so I had no idea what they sounded like. I didn't even know if this was a different album from the one I'd read a review of in CREEM magazine the year before. I knew I had to check it out, so I plunked my hard earned burger flipping money down and then had to wait until later that evening to hear it. The whole family went out that night to visit friends, so I spent most of the evening staring at the cover graphics while the adults talked and drank.
I was fascinated by the photos on the front and inside the gate-fold. I didn't know who was who yet. I knew what John Lydon used to look like, but not the rest of the band and the distortion of the warped image effect used made it nearly impossible to tell which one was him. The cover also had all the lyrics printed on the back. They weren't originally included with the Metal Box edition due to cost, so PiL had run an ad in one of the UK music papers with the lyrics printed in it so people could take that and fold it up to stick inside the tin. They were in the same hand written style in both cases, I'm assuming in Lydon's writing. They weren't in the same order as the songs on the LPs, so when I did finally get to hear the records, it took a bit of sorting to figure out which song was which.
When I finally did get home that evening, I went to the big old wooden console stereo system in the living room, grabbed the headphones, set myself up in a comfy chair and dropped the needle on the first track. It wasn't a great system, so I didn't have the best first listening experience, but it was good enough for me to be able to appreciate how different this all was. Looking at the labels on the records, I noticed the run times for the track listings. Side one started with Albatross, which clocked in at an intimidating 10 minutes! I wasn't used to songs being much longer than 3 or 4 minutes. Maybe 6 was long when you're talking about something like Bohemian Rhapsody or a Zeppelin track and, in those cases, they were intricately orchestrated with major changes in structure and arrangements as the track progressed.
YOU ARE UNBEARABLE
Albatross kicked in and I was immediately anxious and anticipating when it was going to start changing. After a few minutes in, it became apparent it wouldn't. Jah Wobble's bass line comes in first and it sounds lazy, like it can barely stand to differentiate the three notes it keeps repeating. It doesn't even want to try to do anything but lumber along. And it's so deep! It's just this rumble under the floorboards. It sounds scary and maybe a little pissed off about something. Brooding? Yeah, that's the feel. Then the drums start plodding along and this scraping, screeching noise from Keith Levene's guitar comes in like a carrion bird way up in the sky, circling and waiting for something to die so it can swoop down and gorge itself. The ghost of Johnny Rotten then looms up from his grave and starts moaning about something he can't get rid of. His thoughts are fragments, piecemeal musings you might extract from a cadaver's brain. "Frying rear blinds"? What does that even mean? It's bits and pieces of ideas and images, but there's a sense of exasperation and boredom. What's he on about? Is it his career and fame? Is it the carcass of rock & roll being flogged like that dead horse? "Slow motion... slow motion..." The whole thing fucks with your sense of time. It goes on so long and is so ruthlessly repetitive, that you lose any sense of time passing. Everything stands still. Then it's over and the last thing you hear is that squalling vulture flying off into the distance.
IT SHOULD BE CLEAR BY NOW
Next up, Memories kicks off with some pep as the tempo picks up. Now, the bass is hollow sounding and bouncy while a disco beat pops along, encouraging some toe tapping. A curtain of vibrato guitars starts shimmering in the background. There's something vaguely Latin about it, like flamenco or something, but it's not even certain what instrument you're listening to. It sounds a bit like an organ too. There's a flurry of notes that dance around, but they never quite create a melody. It's merely a suggestion of conventional structure. Lydon's voice comes in with a sneer and declares he's "had enough of useless memories" and proceeds to tear into the concepts of sentimentality and nostalgia. Then, just when you think you've got a handle on things, the entire mix suddenly cuts to something completely different. The bass is back to booming again. The drums are heavier now too, with the kick threatening to bounce the stylus right out of the grooves. It's all compressed so that the loudness of the track hits the maximum and you can imagine any VU meter pinned to the top when the mix cuts over. That curtain of Spanish moss is now a wall made of steel and it's pushing that voice as it bellows and snarls about being "used" and "dragging on and on and on and on and on AND ON AND ON!" Back and forth, the song snaps between the two mixes until it goes careening out of sight. As previously mentioned, this song was released as a single, but that version only used the bottom heavy mix throughout and did not have the abrupt edits between mixes. Personally, I can never really decide which is more effective, though I tend to favor the single most of the time, but the juxtaposition of the two mixes on the LP was a fresh, jarring concept and executed flawlessly.
FLOWERS ROTTING DEAD
By the time I'd finished the first side, I was feeling like I'd been punched in the head in the best way possible. My initial apprehension was replaced by an exuberance as I could feel the sense that something new was taking hold in my brain. Flipping the record over, the next track up was Swan Lake. This had been released in a more stripped down, rough mix as Death Disco in the summer of that year. This finished mix would take the rawness of the single and refine it into a truly heartbreaking exploration of loss and death. The song was written by Lydon about watching his dear mother pass due to the ravages of cancer. His delivery during the song is nothing short of agonizing. There's no measuring or muting his suffering and he lets it out with every excruciating wail of "words cannot express!!!". Again, a disco beat provides the bedrock while Wobble's bass thunders with the tension and anxiety of an anxiously racing heartbeat. Levene's repeating guitar and synth motif, borrowed from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, creates the sense of mourning and lamenting the loss of a loved one. The emotion in the song is so raw and uninhibited, it's very strange to see the promo video made for it as the band seem to be mugging it up during their miming of the track for the camera. On Second Edition, the track spins into a frenzy before before being abruptly cut off by the next track while, on Metal Box, it bleeds into the run-out locked groove to find its terminus.
THE SMELL OF RUBBER ON COUNTRY TAR
Things abruptly switch to the next track, Poptones. The song tells the tale of kidnapping and murder, snatched straight out of the headlines of the tabloids. It's almost beautiful, musically. Keith spins a delicate spiderweb of guitar notes, cascading down upon each other and churning like a glittering Ferris wheel. I say "almost" because it's all a bit like a bouquet of flowers that has died on the dressing table. The tale being told is past tense, so there's no sense of urgency or threat. There's only the aftermath as the deceased in question relates its own demise, the sound of music playing on a cassette in the car communicating the dispassionate telling of this sordid true crime story. A walking bass loops around along with the guitar, meandering through a cycle of notes while the drums tumble along for the ride. It's a dizzying swirl of sound as we feel the chill of a car boot in the country air and the "wet" of the dirt while we lose our "body heat". Lydon intones the vocals in a cracked, reedy tone that reinforces the detachment from any direct experience. Faintly in the background, his voice echoes down into the vortex, barely audible amid the distortion.
Cut to the battle field for the completion of the trifecta on side two of the 2nd-E track listing. The tape machine kicks into gear with a sweep of the pitch and we're marching. The drums pat out a militant trundle while the bass, deep as usual, pushes underneath, an insistent drill sergeant, counting out steps as the troops move forward. All around, synthesizers swirl, discordant and droning, swooping through as teargas lingers on the horizon. We're going to war, but it's corpses for cash in this modern military industrial complex. The big money is meticulous and well organized as it poisons the landscape. Lydon's voice searches for "meaning behind the moaning", but all he finds is dollar signs. This is not conflict over ideals or beliefs or even traditional material concerns such as land rights. This is military for money, as a mechanism for generating financial profit. PiL were predicting the future here and, 40 years on, it's horrifying how precisely accurate their prediction was. Synthetic gunshots ring out in jarring bursts. When they hit rapid-fire, it makes you jump in your seat. It's frightening and relentless and it all ends in a crescendo barrage.
IT IS YOUR NATURE
The next set of tracks gives the listener a bit of a breather. I'm going by the double LP track listing here for this article as this is the ordering I was ingrained to follow until I finally got a proper copy of Metal Box a good year after first getting Second Edition. First up are a couple of instrumentals. Socialist comes staggering out of the speakers like some sort of short-circuiting robot. The drums are weirdly syncopated with the bass and the whole thing is sprinkled with nothing more than some random synth bleeps and bloops. This is followed by Graveyard, a track which previously appeared in a different mix with vocals on the B-Side of the Memories single as Another. It was also recycled by Wobble for the track
Not Another, reverting back to an instrumental, on his first solo LP. It's a rhythmic, atmospheric piece with a decidedly morbid mood, most suitable for some midnight forays to the land of tombstones. It would make a good soundtrack for waiting for The Great Pumpkin in the pumpkin patch. This moody, brief trio is rounded off with The Suit,
also recycled by Wobble for his solo album as Blueberry Hill. Here, it's little more than a lonely bass line playing against a tape looped kick & snare with Lydon doing some of his infamous piano tinkling in the background (he often did this in the studio simply to annoy everyone). Keith is nowhere to be found here. Lydon's lyrics sneer and snigger at those who live off the ideas of others, never originating anything themselves. Their look, their attitude, their manners, all borrowed from others and sold cheap to anyone stupid enough to buy into their fake personas. It eventually disappears down an echoing corridor to end this set.
ONE MORE SOB STORY
The final quartet of tracks brings us to some of the most harrowing moments of the album. First up is another story torn from the morning papers, Bad Baby. This was the audition piece for drummer Martin Atkins, who knocked it out in a single take, thus clinching his hiring by the band. Here, he drops a minimalist funky beat while Wobble saunters along on bass. Keith ads no more than the occasional car horn inspired atonal synth stab, but that's enough. The track doesn't need any more. Lydon fills in the rest with his recounting of a story of an infant being left alone in a parked car. It's a story you hear every year, at least a dozen times, still to this day. Lydon relates it rather offhand and almost distracted, like he's busy looking for gum in his pockets or something. It's a song about thoughtlessness and that's the feeling that comes across in the delivery.
DON'T KNOW WHY I BOTHER, THERE'S NOTHING IN IT FOR ME
Things start to get harrier with No Birds, the post-punk equivalent to The Monkees' Pleasant Valley Sunday. In this case, it's suburban malaise taken into discordant abandon. The drums ripple with tribal toms while the bass pushes them along. Once more, Lydon's piano is plinking in the background while Keith shaves off sheets of searing guitar. Lydon's vocals paint a picture of disaffection, "a layered mass of subtle props." He keeps insisting "this could be Heaven", but you know it's a long way from that. The song trots along until it's suddenly struck down by the most manic piece on the album, Chant. The drums are primal and thudding, like a mob stomping in rage. The bass grumbles underneath and, like Albatross, there's barely any distinction between the notes, only an uneasy minor variation. Keith's guitar thrashes and spits in all directions. There doesn't seem to be any pattern to it, it's chaotic flailing imitating the mob mentality being evoked. There's a "chant" building in the background. "Love, war, fear, hate"! At lease, that's what it sounds like. It's not really possible to say for sure. The chanting is so incessant, the words lose their meaning from repetition. Then the lead vocals charge in, scouring the air with condemnation. "Voice moaning in a speaker, never really get too close". Riots, protests, demonstrations, a futility of empty gestures accomplishing nothing. Meaningless slogans, unfulfilled promises, empty threats. It's the anger of the world stewing away with no target, no hope of success and no objective to accomplish. The song riots along until the channel gets abruptly changed because it's too miserable to take any more.
It's all been a pretty bleak affair up to this point with the music and lyrics and even the packaging painting a grey, metallic picture of death, despair and hopelessness. So how come I felt so good listening to it? The final track in this assault, Radio 4, finally lifts us out of the bleakness for a brief glimpse of beauty. It's the third instrumental and it's pretty much all Keith (though I've heard rumors that Ken Lockie, of Cowboys International, had a hand in it). It's essentially no more than a wandering bass line and washes of synth chords moving in like waves crashing on the shore while a lonely lead line drifts over top. Occasional cymbal splashes are the only accents. It's peaceful, serine, contemplative and brings you back down to earth after the rest of the album's jarring, hypnotic melee. It's waking up from the nightmare and realizing you're still okay... for now.
WE'RE NOT A BAND, WE'RE A CORPORATION
After my first listen, I was stunned. I went to high school the next day and tried to explain that I'd heard something beyond anything I'd heard before, but I didn't have the words and no one took note of me. For the next 6 months or more, Second Edition was played at least once, start to finish, every single day. I obsessed over it. I played it for anyone who would listen. It made most of the other records in my meager collection irrelevant. Verses and choruses? How quaint and old fashioned. Melody and harmonies? Passé. It had thrown itself so far ahead of the pack, listening to most other music seemed pointless. It also inspired.
Before hearing PiL, I'd had ideas of wanting to make my own music and had even taken guitar and bass lessons. As a result, I had instruments sitting in my room and a cheap amp, which were mostly ignored for the prior two years. I never seriously felt like I could do music myself. I never thought I had the ability to make anything anyone would want to listen to. I didn't think I was good enough and I didn't know where to start. But Second Edition was like an instruction manual and it was a tool kit and a pile of building blocks, all in one. It wasn't something to merely listen to. It was something to study and learn from. Its structures were primary and easy to comprehend. Throw down a simple beat, add a few notes on bass, jam some guitar on top or just make weird noises and blather on about whatever you wanted to finish it off. That was it. That was all you needed to make your own music. Within a year, I'd managed to buy a synth and a drum machine and a cheap cassette recorder. I'd met a few friends who were also interested in fucking around with music, so we'd hang out in someone's basement or bedroom and crank out some noise. I wouldn't have felt like I could do it if it weren't for PiL and this album, in particular.
PiL made you question every structure around music and understand that the rules were not fixed and that every aspect could be played with. The way you play an instrument, the way to make a record, the way you package it, the way you structure your band. You could have an accountant and a publicist be part of the band. They did. It was all up for grabs and you only needed to have the nerve to throw caution to the wind to try to make shit happen. That was an important lesson and one I will always be grateful for learning.
Eventually, as I mentioned, I got my hands on a sanctified original pressing of an actual Metal Box. Back in 1980, living in Canada, that wasn't easy to do. The Records on Wheels shop was getting in copies of NME and Sounds music papers on import, so I was buying them and checking out the classified ads at the back. I found one selling copies of Metal Box plus the 12" of Memories and Death Disco. I got my calculator out, went to the bank and managed to figure out the exchange between British Pounds and Canadian Dollars, bought a money order and sent it off in the mail. With no internet or cheap overseas phones, it was a huge risk to send so much off like that. It cost about $60 all total, which was a lot back then. I had to wait about 3 months and often wondered if it would ever arrive, but one day, it finally did and at last, I had my hands on an actual copy of Metal Box. I still have all those records today, prominently displayed on my CD shelf.
Over the years, I've purchased this album more times than any other. There was my original Second Edition Canadian release in 1980, the above noted original Metal Box edition in 1981, a UK pressing of Second Edition in 1983 (still have that one), my first CD copy of Second Edition circa 1989, a CD replica of Metal Box sometime around 2002, the 2006 4 Men With Beards vinyl Metal Box reissue and, finally, the 2009 Virgin 30th anniversary 3 CD Metal Box replica (which I also still have). That makes 7 different versions. I couldn't get the expanded edition from 2016, sadly, because I'm poor now and can't afford such things. At least I was able to hear the bonus material thanks to YouTube. Anyway, the point is that no other piece of music in my life has demanded my attention and collecting obsessiveness like Metal Box.
Since its release, it has gone on to secure its position in popular music history as one of the most significant and influential albums of all time. It rehabilitated dance music, allowing it to move into more experimental realms in the 1980s, after "disco" had made the 4x4 beat a cocaine dusted disgrace. It can credibly be sited as the seed that grew into the bass music culture that spread throughout the 1990s and 2000s via downtempo, drum & bass and dubstep. It may not have had the sales figures of a Sgt. Pepper, but it was no less revolutionary in terms of the effect it had on people who make music and art.
Where the Sex Pistols had been an attempt, at least for Mr. Rotten, to blast apart the ramparts of "rock 'n' roll", Metal Box showed you what could be built in its place, once you'd cleared away the rubble. It was the next step beyond the nihilism of punk and actually a positive statement about the nature of creativity, which is why it had the odd effect of making me feel good even when the themes of the songs were so bleak and unsettling. It made you feel like something was possible, in spite of all the horror. And it also told you the truth about how fucked up things were. You felt like it was honest about the world. There was no fake optimism or plaster over the horrors "feel good" bullshit. And it concealed a wickedly dark sense of humor, if you knew where to find it (just ask Dick Clark or Tom Snyder).
In the end, it has proven itself more than capable of "sowing the seed of discontent".
