Good for Necropolis. Good for us. Yet the question remains: why aren’t the Babylon Whores one of the biggest rock bands in the world, a notion that is simultaneously promising and sad? Musically, they’re almost accessible enough for the mindless minions addicted to radio. Cryptic enough to stroke the interests and egos of those academic, pseudointellectual types who pass themselves off as reviewers. And enigmatic and image conscious enough for the dejected goth types who still lament the sad fact that they were not born in the seventeenth century. Perhaps these are the integral components of this high voltage concoction the band has dubbed death rock, and the rest of the planet has yet to catch on. As soon as King Fear slithers its way into mainstream America, however, everything will change. Guaranteed.
King Fear, the rock ‘n’ roll album to end the millennium, has the feel and the buzz of a concept album, although I can’t for the life of me figure out just what the hell the concept is. But this matters little. The songs stand alone with no real need for an overarching thread to neatly tie them together, although I must admit that attempting to wrap my brain around a perceived theme generates a greater degree of mystique to the CD. Not unlike fellow countrymen Amorphis, the Whores’ tunes are multidimensional, operating on a number of disparate levels – swarming guitar riffs piled atop purposely restrained vocals undergirded by a melodic backbone of subtly utilized, uncharacteristic instrumentation, such as the flutes weaving in and out of “To Behold the Suns Below” and the closer, “King Fear: Song for the Damned.” But do not be misled. The Whores are, first and foremost, a rock band. In other words, they rock. Skeptics needn’t seek any further than the first five songs to eliminate any doubts or concerns. Opener “Errata Stigmata,” with its rousing chorus of “Say You Love Satan,” has my nomination for single of the year. “Radio Werewolf” and “Hand of Glory,” both strong singles in their own right, bleed into the power balladish “Veritas” before shifting gears once again into the chugging “Skeleton Farm.”
I suppose it is inevitable, then, that the CD can’t quite keep up the momentum as the phenomenal first side. To be quite truthful, it’s a tad disappointing, a bit too somber to sustain my undivided attention. Not to say that the songs are bad or flat out boring. They just don’t match the swagger – the energetic bravado – of the initial five songs. Similar to Jane’s Addiction’s Ritual de lo Habitual, a band who appears to share at least somewhat of a kinship with the Whores. Perhaps this shift in tempo is an important piece of the concept that hovers just beyond my mental grasp. Perhaps the band’s booze and drugs started wearing off. Whatever the case, the second side tends to drag down the level of intensity of the overall album.
Despite the aforementioned setbacks, my opinion has not wavered – the Babylon Whores could and should take over the world, although I must admit that keeping them constrained within the limited boundaries by which they are confined certainly has its appeal. My secret to share with a relatively select few. Those who refuse to settle for status quo rock ‘n’ roll.
