Ego: So I heard you actually visited your local record store and purchased a couple of CDs the other day. When was the last time that happened?

Id: I know, it’s been forever, right? You thought I was going to sleep soundly knowing that there’s a new Stereolab release that I didn’t own yet?

Ego: But you’re not here to argue over the new Stereolab, are you?

Id: No, I’m going to need more time to digest its kaleidoscopic, bubblegum-pop brilliance.

Ego: Whatever. So GZA’s Pro Tools (2008): afternoon power nap or all-night snoozefest?

Id: Come on, it’s not that bad. It’s not outstanding or anything, but it’s better than what I expected, which, granted, has become the clichéd kneejerk criticism of most Wu output these days. The production is solid for the most part and GZA’s pen hasn’t softened in the slightest.

Ego: Yeah, yeah – can I ask you something that’s been on my mind for, I don’t know, I guess the past few years or so?

Id: Why do homogeneous “indie” artists and songwriters continue to waste their time and resources by mailing me their shit for review?

Ego: No, no, that – well, yeah, of course, but no, what I want to ask is: remember when GZA was hungry?

Id: Say again?

Ego: I’m talking about when dude was hungry – his cool, deliberate flow locking into every beat with deadly precision, dropping the most insanely cryptic similes and gems of wisdom, and whose multilayered lyricism was unrivaled, achieving in eight bars what the other Wu clansmen needed 24 or 32 for?

Id: Say, that’s a novel approach. Let’s compare Pro Tools to Liquid Swords (1995).

Ego: All I’m saying is that it sounds like the guy hasn’t had his morning coffee yet on half of the cuts here. Give him a shot of adrenaline, for Christ’s sake. The blunted, low-key demeanor on “Short Race” and “Paths of Destruction” would work wonders for Masta Killa or Raekwon, but for GZA it sounds like he’d rather be playing chess or something. On “Cinema” he sounds damn near lethargic.

Id: Yeah, but what is he, like 42 years old now? We shouldn’t expect “Protect Ya Neck”-like levels of urgency here. The Grandmasters (2005) record already signaled the shift in focus toward introspective musings, advanced wordplay, and spellbinding narratives. Check the intro of “Groundbreaking”:

I’m in the schoolyard, rhyming with my brother Jamal and Ra-la (sp?),
Vibing to the beat and imagining how far the sound traveled at the turn of the volume.
It would shake the gravel before we heard the loud boom.
It vibrated through the parking lot, shattered a few windshields,
Set of a spark and shocked the local UPS cat, but we didn’t stress that,
He had a slow leak, a front tire almost flat.

In a word: phenomenal. The listener can visualize the setting immediately, imagining the cipher and the casual interaction between the characters, and marvel with GZA on the basic principles of physical acoustics, right on down to the description of a delivery driver’s truck in the distance – to say nothing of the alliteration and various internal rhyme schemes here. GZA hasn’t lost his touch one bit.

“Groundbreaking” – GZA/Genius feat. Justice Kareem 2:33 (Pro Tools, Babygrande 2008)

Ego: Yeah, but at times it feels like the technicality outweighs the emotion. I mean, he’s done the record labels thing, the celebrity names thing, and now he’s moved on to the auto industry (“0% Finance”)? I want battle rhymes and wolf tickets, dammit.

Id: I hear you, and yeah, admittedly “Alphabets” sounds mad corny in principle – to the point where a description of the song is unnecessary – but for those who can simply step back and appreciate The Craft at its essence, it’s astonishing. It makes one wonder where GZA’s head was at when he decided to cede an entire track to some gravel-throated weed carrier named Ka (“Firehouse”).

Ego: He’s not awful, but seriously, save it for the next Sunz of Man album. Let’s talk about the production.

Id: Meh. Hit or miss.

Ego: But again, a lot better than you predicted, I imagine. The Wu satellite producers really stepped up their game here and reserved some of their best material for GZA – Bronze Nazareth, Arabian Knight, and Mathematics all contribute soulful bangers. “Pencil,” by the latter, knocks like nothing else I’ve heard all year, and Black Milk’s “7 Pounds” is a definite highlight. RZA also continues to baffle behind the boards with the futuristic, synth-overdriven “Life Is a Movie.”

Id: Speaking of RZA, what’s up with his verse on “Pencil”?

Ego: It’s arguably the best verse of his entire career!

Id: I know! Well, “Impossible” would be hard to top. But yeah, it’s the perfect blend of that metaphysical drivel that makes sense only to him and straight-up superheroic trash talking. You know, you’re beginning to sound like you actually like the album.

Ego: It’s a grower, for sure, but so was Legend of the Liquid Sword (2002), and I thought Beneath the Surface (1999) was pure garbage up until a couple of years ago.

Id: I feel a deep Wu mood coming over me. What do you say, let’s go download Cappadonna’s The Cappatalize Project (2008) and eat a gallon of ice cream!

Ego: I say let’s not get too carried away here. We’re going to have problems if I catch you in the middle of a Google search for “Ice Water Inc new album”.

“Pencil” – GZA/Genius feat. Masta Killa & RZA 3:58 (Pro Tools, Babygrande 2008)

If there was ever a “golden age” in the development of extreme, aggressive music during the latter half of the 20th century, it would arguably be the late ‘80s/early ‘90s, when metal’s orbit would come as close as it would get to becoming a staple in the masses’ consumption of popular music. Scenes and subgenres were sprouting up all over the world, from South America’s tropical depths to the frozen ranges of the Arctic Circle. Competition was healthy, as song forms, styles, and execution were developing faster than anyone could thoroughly pursue. Originality and distinction were prized more than ever (admittedly oftentimes at the expense of talent), especially in the realm of vocalists, who strived to stand out from the pack by any means possible: growls, screeches, rasps, and gasps. There are undoubtedly some outstanding frontmen in metal today, but for my money, today’s scene doesn’t hold the excitement that the ‘90s did when it came to picking up a microphone and violently stripping one’s vocal cords into it. The following are my ten favorite vocalists of this era.

10. Mikael Åkerfeldt Opeth, Bloodbath

Unlike most Opeth fans, I’ve never been able to work myself into a fit of apeshitting hysteria over Mikael Åkerfeldt’s “clean” singing. It’s perfectly serviceable and almost always tasteful, but I’ll take the guy’s cavernous roars over his pleasant tenor any day. I’ve expounded upon the band and Åkerfeldt’s genius enough here in the past and I don’t want to retread covered ground, but my familiarity with Opeth’s music runs so deep that I actually experience a calming solace upon hearing the leader summon the demons of hell with that gargantuan growl of his. These days Åkerfeldt is prone to sing just as often as he roars, sending me pining for the days when he would overdub his fiendish howl into a swarming atmosphere of evil, as on “Demon of the Fall.” Either way, this list simply wouldn’t be complete without his inclusion somewhere.

“Demon of the Fall” – Opeth 6:13 (My Arms Your Hearse, Century Media 1998)

9. Al Jourgensen Ministry, Revolting Cocks

Ministry architect Al Jourgensen may seem like an odd choice for a candidate here, but I’ve always been amazed at how well he’s been able to subtly adapt his voice into his surroundings over the years, whether he’s hissing and taunting his subject (read: W.) like a schoolyard bully, exhaling blue-flamed fire over machine gun-like bursts of industrial noise, or wailing uncontrollably like a lunatic. Compare his throaty grunts on “N.W.O.” to the deafening shouts of “So What,” or Filth Pig’s (1995) battery acid-guzzling “Lava” with anything off last year’s The Last Sucker (2007); clearly, vocals aren’t just an afterthought for him. Jourgensen’s unbridled howling is the perfect amalgam of white-trash ferocity, devilish malice, and tongue-in-cheek mockery, and when combined with a drilling riff and jackhammer drums, the results are pure fire. Enjoy your long-deserved retirement, Al.

“Filth Pig” – Ministry 5:16 (Filth Pig, Warner Bros. 1995)

8. Burton C. Bell Fear Factory

Fear Factory never had the most unique sonic formula – mix one part Napalm Death and one part Godflesh, add the technological paranoia thing, and there you have it – but the level of industrial rhythmic precision the band introduced to the scene was unprecedented, laying the groundwork for bands like tech-metal practitioners Meshuggah to hone and develop into stop/start perfection. At first listen, vocalist Burton C. Bell appeared to be little more than a second-tier Barney Greenway – albeit just as powerful – until dude suddenly transformed into a wide-eyed choirboy, alternating between innocent singing and gutteral roars at the drop of a hat. And unlike Greenway, his enunciation was clear enough that a lyric sheet was almost unnecessary, even in full-on rage mode. Bell has yet to receive his full due as pioneer of the contentious “clean” vocal style that was seemingly everywhere by the end of the ‘90s, but his lower range has and still is truly a force to be reckoned with.

“Scapegoat” – Fear Factory 4:33 (Soul of a New Machine, Roadrunner 1992)

7. David Vincent Morbid Angel

Had Morbid Angel’s David Vincent continued in the style of the spectre-like shriek he introduced on Alters of Madness (1989), he’d likely be at the top of this list. As history would have it, however, the bassist was suffering from a nasty cold during the recording of the group’s death metal masterpiece and wouldn’t revisit that particular vocal style again. Yet the frigid howl that permeates Blessed Are the Sick (1991) and Covenant (1993) holds near as much potency, even if it’s buried in the mix at times and overshadowed by Trey Azagthoth’s jaw-dropping guitar theatrics. Clarity and diction were never Vincent’s strong points, but he compensated with the atmosphere of menace and terror he brought to each recording. Put a smear of reverb on his vocal track and the scale of the band’s nightmarish wall of sound increases drastically.

“The Ancient Ones” – Morbid Angel 5:54 (Blessed Are the Sick, Earache 1991)

6. Ihsahn Emperor

Emperor’s Ihsahn was one of the first of the Nordic horde to advance beyond the simplistic and commonplace black metal rasp and into something like a vocal chameleon, equally adept at bellowing roars, deep chanting, stinging whispers, and chest-thumping operatics. At the heart of it all was his signature thorny shriek that was the equivalent of shouting into a hurricane. Seriously, dude could disrupt entire weather systems just by breathing a certain way, and on symphonic metal milestones like the achingly gorgeous Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk (1997) and the absolutely punishing and unrelenting IX Equilibrium (1999) he didn’t hold back in the slightest, scraping the ear canals of the helpless listener like jagged, rusty nails. Ihsahn’s calculated control of his sonic environment was his greatest asset, hovering over the proceedings like a malevolent and vengeful supernatural force. For grandeur and awesome power alone, no one compares to him. Confession: he still scares the shit out of me.

“Thus Spake the Nightspirit” – Emperor 4:30 (Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk, Candlelight 1997)

5. Chuck Schuldiner Death

I still miss him. I miss his nimble, breathtaking fretwork, which made 32nd-note runs and tremelo squeals look like child’s play. I miss his endlessly imaginative songwriting, which would careen into stratospheric heights of melodic majesty just as fast as it could scrape the earth with churning, subterranean riffage. I miss the unexpected poignancy of lyrics like, “Do you remember when things seemed so eternal?/Heroes were so real, their magic frozen in time” (“Symbolic”). And I miss his urgent, almost croaked vocal, which didn’t seem particularly unique during Death’s heyday but grows more impressive with each year since his passing in 2001. Chuck Schuldiner’s ability to sing with any measure of proficiency while executing guitar riffs of the utmost complexity guarantees him a spot on this list regardless of the vocal style. Schuldiner’s vocals had mutated into a sort of black metal rasp by the release of Death’s swan song The Sound of Perseverence (1998), but it’s the throat-scraping viciousness of the band’s releases from earlier that decade that I favor the most. The immeasurable wealth of talent that this guy had is still difficult for me to wrap my head around.

“Together As One” – Death 4:09 (Human, Relativity 1991)

4. John Tardy Obituary

Were it not for John Tardy, Obituary would have barely registered as a blip on my radar in the early ‘90s. Sure, the band was a critical component during American death metal’s growth, but musically, their run-of-the-mill riffage never did much for me. Except for Tardy, who could scream over an album of Limp Bizkit instrumentals and I’d buy it without hesitation. Tardy is one of the few metal vocalists who is committed to sounding genuinely tortured, both physically and (especially) psychologically, spewing out nonsensical lumps of syllables and indecipherable barks like a rabid animal. His vocal technique could best be described as a series of wildly varying atonal pitches rather than a constant, clipped growl, and his presence is instantly recognizable, making him one of the most singular frontmen in the music’s history. Without him, the likelihood of Obituary becoming a mere footnote in the history of death metal would be ten times more probable. And his scream? Check the intro to “Final Thoughs” for proof that hell on earth really does exist.

“Final Thoughts” – Obituary 4:09 (World Demise, Roadrunner 1994)

3. Mark “Barney” Greenway Napalm Death, Extreme Noise Terror

Imagine receiving the full brunt of a furnace explosion and you’ll get a pretty good idea of the dry and scalding vocal force Mark “Barney” Greenway brings to Napalm Death. It’s impossible to envision the band now without him. Subtlety and variation simply aren’t a part of Greenway’s modus operandi. He operates on one setting – full blast – and nearly twenty years later, he’s made an art form out of it. No disrespect to previous Napalm vocalist and Cathedral mastermind Lee Dorrian, but Greenway ushered the group into a new level of extremity that was unmatched by the time of his debut Harmony Corruption (1990). Even as the band flirted with a more mainstream, groove-oriented sound on Diatribes (1996) and Inside the Torn Apart (1997), Greenway remained absolutely uncompromising in his vocal approach, refusing to “clean it up” or make the music more digestible, right down to his near-indecipherable Birmingham brogue. Many have tried to match Greenway for consistency and pure sonic intensity, but to little avail. How the guy has a normal speaking voice after ritually mutilating his larynx all these years is beyond my understanding.

“Christening of the Blind” – Napalm Death 3:21 (Utopia Banished, Earache 1992)

2. Jeff Walker Carcass

Ironically enough, when Carcass’ Jeff Walker was encouraged to share lyric and vocal duties during the band’s formative stages, he couldn’t muster enthusiasm about it; all he wanted to do was play bass and maybe design some of the group’s album artwork. That is, of course, until he borrowed his sister’s medical dictionary and proceeded to pen the most hilariously gruesome odes to forensic pathology, delivered in a scraping, paint-peeling rasp that was the “little bear” to guitarist Bill Steer’s “papa bear” vocals. As the band progressed beyond old-fashioned grindcore and into the more melodic (but no less crushing) territory of Heartwork (1993), Walker took full rein of the vocal content and had whittled his voice into something akin to a demonic whisper, his growling and hissing standing in even starker contrast to the boogie-metal of Swan Song (1996). His sole desire seemed to be to rip apart the fibers of the meaty chunks of surrounding riffage with his incisors and swallow them whole. I’ll never tire of him.

“Rot ‘n’ Roll” – Carcass 3:49 (The Heartwork EP, Earache 1993)

1. Daniel Weyandt Zao

I’d never expect a Christian metalcore band to top any list here on the site, but such is my devoted gravitation to All Things Daniel Weyandt, vocal proprietor of Zao. I probably first heard the group sometime in ’99 when a friend introduced me to their Liberate te ex Inferis (1999) record one evening, presumably to watch my head spin, Linda Blair-style, at the magnificent concentration of sheer evil in Weyandt’s mangled voice. Some metal fans like their vocals in grunts and barks, others lean toward the venomous rasps, and more than a few prefer James LaBrie-like pomposity. Weyandt’s are my poison of choice: chilling, teeth-gnashing, acid-gargling, unintelligible thrashings of human sound that make my blood curdle in terror and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. As a musical collective, I’d hardly consider Zao in the league of any of the above bands – the riffs are simple yet effective, the songwriting is passable, the playing is average (although original drummer Jesse Smith was a fucking monster on the kit). Weyandt is pretty much the sole reason why I’d ever listen to them; perhaps I have a certain fascination with hearing what sounds like someone violently ravaging an animal carcass in starved derangement. I guess I’m a little warped like that.

“Lies of Serpents, a River of Tears” – Zao 2:39 (Where Blood and Fire Bring Rest, Tooth & Nail 1998)

I’m really at a loss for a coherent eulogy right now, but I’ll give it my best.

It’s impossible to overstate how much Isaac Hayes’ music means to me. He was my gateway into the Soul and R&B of the 1970s, when I discovered a copy of Hot Buttered Soul (1969) in my father’s LP collection back in high school and played it endlessly on repeat through a pair of headphones. There was an indefinable intangibility to it that I couldn’t wrap my head around then and still can’t; simple descriptors like “funky” or “dripping with soul” barely scratched the surface of what really made “Walk on By” or “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” so special. The rhythm section thumped and knocked like nothing I had heard before, the string and horn arrangements were gifts from heaven, and Hayes rich baritone enveloped and comforted my soul like a warm blanket. I picked up Shaft (1971), which occupied my stereo for a solid six months, then Black Moses (1971), which quickly became the object of my affection if only for the sheer balls-factor of the title alone. I slowly began to acquire everything and anything with the man’s name on it, from Fantasy CD reissues like Chocolate Chip (1975) to worn LP copies of Disco Connection (1975) and the hilariously tasteless cover art of Juicy Fruit (1976). I have disc after disc of CD-Rs that I’ve burned over the years of various Issac Hayes mixes, intended only for myself; titles include “Hayes Sex Romp ’73-‘76” and “Ike’s Raps: The Complete Recordings.” Night after night I’d fall asleep to his records, their deep grooves lulling me into subconsciousness. In short, I couldn’t get enough of him.

Hayes’ music became the standard for which I held other artists of the 1970s by. He could transform a simple pop song into a sweeping, multi-part opus that could easily occupy a quarter of an hour without meandering in the slightest. At their prime, no other artist could touch his rhythm section (led by guitarist Charles Pitts and drummer Willie Hall), who could dig into a groove like they were determined to reach the center of the earth. His arrangements were truly one-of-a-kind, from the soft, whispering woodwinds to the staccato horn bursts. At the center of it all was the voice, commanding yet tender, velvety smooth but heavy as hell. The voice that could be heard casually joking with his band, swooning millions of women during a ballad, rapping to the audience over a slinky vamp, or roaring throughout the L.A. Coliseum at Wattstax. Years later, my exhaustive familiarity with Hayes’ music has never grown stale or tiring. To these ears, it will always and forever be timeless.

He was a pioneer and a visionary, a musician and bandleader of enormous talent, a personality and presence that was both warm and passionate. There will never be another like him. Mr. Hayes, you will be sorely missed.

“Rock Me Easy Baby” – Isaac Hayes 8:17 (Groove-A-Thon, ABC 1976)