Mastodon was anointed early as a savior of metal for the new millennium despite a tendency towards mixed results. Their last two full-lengths, Blood Mountain and Leviathan, each had three or four truly stunning songs on them, but also a fair share of middle of the road cuts that recycle a lot of the same dynamics and riffs and at least a couple that range between head-scratching failures and obnoxiously unbearable gristle. Sometimes exhausting, sometimes tiresome, their attempts to keep the thunder crashing for forty-plus minutes straight was apparently far more daunting than the silly titles they came up with for their songs. They’ve been a good band for many years now, often approaching and reaching greatness, but never with a consistency that would put them firmly into heavy metal royalty.
So it was with some trepidation that I approached their latest, which recruited Brendan O’Brien as a producer. O’Brien has had his hand in more than enough great albums over the years to ensure that his value can’t accurately be applauded, but for Mastodon, it seemed at first glance to be a blatantly transparent move for mainstream acceptance (Blood Mountain did decent business, but not nearly as much as a “hot commodity” band should have). The move reeked of cynical notice; I had visions of Our Lady Peace hiring Bob Rock to turn them into Our Lady Creed. But a cursory glance at the tracklist (and song running times) negated a lot of that anxiety. At seven songs, the album runs nearly fifty minutes, time enough for two double-digit minute epics that would close out each side of the vinyl version. So you know going in that they’re going to be “getting their prog on,” which means a desperate bid for radio favor is far from their minds. Instead, I can only assume that O’Brien was brought on board to assist them in making the most of their talent and scope.
They lose very little of their heaviness, but they increase the returns in intricacy and melodicism. Even the sort of stiff-necked purists who whined about Metallica’s Black Album (and later Load) shouldn’t have too much trouble with this more expansive vision. By letting the stomping rhythm section and the anvil riffs breathe a little, their impact increases in magnitude. It doesn’t bog down into a morass of cranky, over-compressed sludge. Instead it sounds like an homage to the heaviest moments of Rush and King Crimson, and gives metal an appealing neon-opera magnificence, opulent arrangements that still squeeze in enough bone-crunching firebombs to keep the less-discerning headbangers mightily pleased.
Beginning with “Oblivion,” they set the tone for the remainder of the album right off the bat. While Brett Hinds’ central riff gathers momentum until it chugs with the speed of a bullet train, it’s the multi-harmony vocals that set the stage for the twisting and spacious venture ahead. Drummer Brann Dailor and bassist Troy Sanders handle the verses and bridges, letting Hinds’ gravelly growl carry the chorus. The harmonies are helpful—Hinds has a good “metal voice,” but “metal voices” are far too much of a burden to bother with anymore, so easing the tension helps aerate the sometimes impenetrable sonic booms. Instead of a numbing nuclear warhead going off, we’re treated to a series of jolting artillery bombardments—maybe not as apocalyptic-cool, but they lend themselves to the lasting power they struggled with in the past. It’s a fireworks display, and the band didn’t forget to bring along a fog machine and lasers to heighten the ostentatious mood.
“Quintessence” is the best of the non-epics on here, with Hinds and Bill Kelliher dueling with their guitars, spacing out on the bridges and pummeling hard and fast during the chorus. There’s an undeniable hardcore slaughter that they summon during those refrains, standing in direct opposition to the gigantic swirl that surrounds them. Those time-signature switches are the greatest weapon in Mastodon’s arsenal (really, almost any ambitious metal outfit). Without ever locking into a singular pace or groove, you never quite get comfortable, ensuring that no matter how overwhelming the conceit can be, you’re never drawn off to entire disinterest, or worse, slumber.
And the conceit is overwhelming. Their earlier record, Leviathan, being based on Moby Dick now seems positively quaint when compared to the middling tale of someone slipping through a wormhole and emerging in the past, just in time to meet Rasputin. In mentioning the Klysty sect, Dailor explains: “Knowing Rasputin is about to be murdered, they put the young boy's spirit inside of Rasputin. Rasputin goes to usurp the throne of the czar and is murdered by the Yusupovs, and the boy and Rasputin fly out of Rasputin's body up through the crack in the sky and head back.” Nothing is going to bring that one back to Earth, not even when Dailor insists that, “It’s all metaphors for personal shit.” Thank goodness for that, because I was beginning to falter…
Lucky for us, metal has never been a haven for great lyricism, so that kind of grand art-stupidity fits in well with the style. What really matters is the musicianship. On Crack the Skye, no tangent or riff stagnates because they never linger long enough for them to become tedious. Over the course of the record, there are surf riffs, Southern rock rhythms, pseudo-jazz arrangements, synths both dominating the drive and the space in between, vocoder-assisted robot vocals and absurdly huge segments that traverse from nascent to climax in a heartbeat. The bombast is best served on the multi-part epics, “The Czar” and “The Last Baron,” which rip and roar from one complex rhythm to the next, gurgling quietly with the pall of impending doom before crashing with the magnitude of an asteroid obliterating an entire mountain range. Too much of either doesn’t work; they’ve discovered the right amount of each for a tight but unpredictable mix.
Tolerance for pomposity and volume will be required to enjoy Crack the Skye, but there’s no doubt that this is Mastodon’s first front-to-back album that holds up all the way through. An absence of fabulous single-ready compositions matters for nothing; it’s the experience of the whole that will deliver it to fans willing to bend to their critical control. Even questioning whether the concept is too muddled or bizarre doesn’t matter. Nor does an absence of great hooks eliminate the need for immediate replays of certain prog-metal movements. If they remain as unguarded, daring and ferocious as this for the near future, the odds of disappointing fall by the wayside. This is the second huge prog-friendly album in the last couple of weeks to emerge victorious over any semblance of out-of-control pretentious boggling of the minds. They may lack the Decemberists’ range but they can match them muscle for chop. The once dubious genre is (for the moment) as satisfying now as it was when the early-70s first gave it a reason for existing.
"Crack the Skye" is on sale March 24, 2009 from Reprise.
