Clutch: From Beale Street to Oblivion
First of all, I must give thanks to [insert the name of your favorite omniscient being here], because I was lucky enough to get an advance copy. All that aside: Here’s my review of the new Clutch album From Beale Street to Oblivion.
This is album is all Clutch, all the time.
It’s not the Clutch you’ve heard, but it’s the Clutch you always thought you’d hear… the Clutch you always expected would come along.
Remember when you first heard Blast Tyrant? It was different from Pure Rock Fury, wasn’t it? It was a little funkier, a little less harsh, but it was still “Clutch”.
Remember when you first heard Robot Hive/Exodus? It was different from Blast Tyrant, wasn’t it? It was deep and chunky… but it was a little deeper, a little chunkier, and a little more groovy (not in the hippy way), but it was still “Clutch”.
At times, this album lopes along at a slower pace. The guitar sound is mellower–still dirty–but the sharper edges have been smoothed. It’s the mix; analog tape, bitches. That alone gives it an all-around thicker sound. Yet there are plenty of catchy hooks, organ solos, and–yes, the rumors are true–a little hard-monica action.
As any Clutch fan would expect, Neil Fallon’s trademark vocals are impeccable, and his words speak truth.
But, in all honesty, I wasn’t immediately sold on the album the very first time I listened to it.
It doesn’t have an “Impetus”. It isn’t “Pure Rock Fury”. “A Shogun Named Marcus” will not be found on this album. It’s just as different as their previous releases have been when compared to their immediate predecessors.
Which means: It’s different, but not at all unexpected. Quite the contrary: The “expected” thing about this album is that it fucking rocks.
Listen to it twice, maybe three times, and you’ll be asking for more Clutch-flavored Kool-aid.
It gets the Crushing Nine.
You can’t stop progress.
-Gary
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