The Pursuit

The Pursuit By Evan Bolick

A Deafening Rage – A Blog By and For Metal & Rock

October 29, 2012 – 9:00 PM

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

A rock and roll scream is the greatest sound in the known universe. Of course, you already knew that, or you wouldn’t be here at my blog. But just in case there are any wayward travelers who have stumbled upon my blog, “please allow me to introduce myself” (and need I even note where that reference comes from?).

My name is Zane Jackson (like everything else in the music biz, it’s an alias, but you will never be privy to my birth name). I am the world’s most prominent metal and hard rock producer (no matter what that bastard Butch Vig may say). I have produced well over a hundred albums and leant my considerable talents to hundreds more. My label, Defcon5, is a star-maker. But I truly am in it for the music. I love the swell of an electric guitar, the thunder created by the beat of a double bass pedal and the primal darkness drawn forth by a thumping bass line.

But most of all, I love a scream. Love would be putting it mildly. I am obsessed. Like a junkie I need my fix of howls and roars. Each album I produce, each band that seeks me out, they must come ready to let loose with the most tortured scream their chords can handle. I will then take that most beautiful of noises and cement it forever into a digital memory and, if I can, make sure it is plated in gold (or platinum).

The scream was unleashed in the rock world in 1966 by The Who. When Roger Daltry opened his mouth and let out a scream – a new dawn of rock was born, and of course, The Who is rock legend.

Of course, the Metal bands have pushed the art form far more than rockers. Those singers show no fear, producing animalistic screams show after show, with the lead singers tearing their throats apart each night. Eric Adams of Manowar is a living legend – a god of tortured vocals. Axl Rose, Michael Sweet, Lzzy Hal, Dave Mustaine and yes, the Bruce Dickinson have all unleashed hell on the world with their voices. And yet, none of them have matched the sound on the cassette I hold in my hand.

And this, dear reader, is where our story, and my journey, begins. Quite simply, an envelope arrived on my desk. No note, no return address, just blank. Clearly, my assistant had not placed it there, as all envelopes and mail are thoroughly checked (and generally, the crappy stuff never even makes it to me). The only logical option was that someone made it through security, through levels of employees, right into my office and to my desk. Impressed with the obvious ingenuity of such a person, I slit it open and was shocked to find a cassette tape. Emblazoned in large gothic-style letters on this precious recording was the band’s name “Celtanics.” Most of you probably don’t know what the hell a cassette is and I don’t blame you. Vinyl is classic, and CDs and MP3s have opened up whole new levels of sound, but cassettes represent the dark ages of sound recording technology. It took me fifteen minutes to even get a cassette player (in other words, an eternity in the music industry) but it was well worth the trouble.

Only one song is on the tape. It begins with a lilting, Irish tenor voice. To me, all Irish bands sound the same, an acoustic guitar with a repetitive chord structure and a singer with mournful tones. Bleh. This song started no different, except for the feedback of an electric guitar lurking in the background and growing more insistent by the second. Without warning, a blast of sound cuts in and the singer’s voice transforms into an awe-inspiring growl. From there, really, the recording is muddled (as so many cassettes were). But there, in the background was the most piercing and pristine scream I had ever heard. My eyes (I am sure I will get laughed at in the comment section for this) welled with tears. A grin spread across my face. I rejoiced, I freaked, I LOL’ed, CSA, take your generational pick.