Review: Black Sabbath's 13
“well-oiled war machine, setting fire to all that stands in its path”
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Let me just start by saying that in my case, Black Sabbath’s music resides in that dubious anatomical region known as the soul. I’m sure many of you feel the same.
When I heard they were releasing a new album of material in the vein of their early output, I felt a sense of curiosity, but also a bit of dread, and not the kind tinged with excitement that one is supposed to feel when listening to these heavy metal forefathers.
I wanted to like this album, but I had a feeling that I might be in for a bit of a disappointment. Reunion albums seldom live up to the legacies of the bands that release them.
Is Sabbath’s latest release, 13 a worthy successor to those early documents of sonic blasphemy, so hallowed in the halls of the unholy? Or is it simply a weary revisiting of a haunted mansion long since turned into a tourist attraction?
13 feels just a little too familiar in certain places. The album opener, "End of the Beginning" borrows more than a little from the title track of Sabbath’s eponymous debut album. The trudging opening chords conjure up the same brand of “here comes the devilTM” as Black Sabbath. The band yet again borrows from that same track later in the album, this time in the “thunderstorm and church bells” outro for the molester-priest revenge tale, "Dear Father."
"Zeitgeist" seems like a sequel to Paranoid’s Planet Caravan. It’s all there, from the floating-through-space narrative, to the Leslie-speaker vocal effects, to the jazzy guitar solo at the end. On this particular interstellar voyage, however, everything seems a bit too clean. The repetitive, dead center bongo drums sound lifted from a yoga video, unlike the varied, spacious-sounding drumming that kept sidereal time in Planet Caravan. The tremulant vocal effects are tucked into the background, rather than being allowed to bubble menacingly, like fire in zero gravity.
And speaking of excessive cleanliness being unbefitting of the restless wicked, 13’s production is a little too crisp and modern for a project aimed at conjuring the warty majesty of Sabbath’s early work. I could certainly have lived with a little more tape hiss, or some good old analog clipping on the drums. The kick drum EQ is a little clacky for my liking, but I suppose that’s a matter of taste.
That being said, the guitar and bass tones are brutal and muscular, and Ozzy’s vocals sound great. Master engineer of comebacks and legendary producer Rick Rubin has done a solid, workmanlike job of bringing this collection of songs to fruition.
The performances on 13 are excellent, not that one would expect anything less from Black Sabbath. Tony Iommi’s riffs are as brawny as ever, and Geezer Butler’s growling, greasy bass-lines are their perfect complement. Together, the two sound like a well-oiled war machine, setting fire to all that stands in its path, crushing skulls along the way. Ozzy’s vocals rarely stray from comfortable range, but his metallic, low-tenor taunt is solid throughout. The fact that original Black Sabbath drummer, Bill Ward could not be cajoled into lending his considerable talent for hitting things to this outing is a little disappointing, but ex-Rage Against the Machine drummer Brad Wilk does a capable, if somewhat clinical job standing in for Ward’s wooly clubbing. He’s no circa-’72 Bill Ward, but then, nor is circa-2013 Bill Ward.
Lyrically, 13 is classic Ozzy, which is to say, the words sometimes seem like angsty teenage doom-journaling, the type scrawled in college-ruled notebooks next to inverted crosses emblazoned with “Black Sabbath,” the two words sharing an “A” at the crux of the holy symbol. But, that can hardly be held against him. Ozzy fucking invented that.
He scornfully confronts his own legacy, contemplates the journey across the River Styx from a closer vantage point than the invincibility of youth, vents his frustration at the hypocrisy of the church, and expresses his disdain for methamphetamine addiction. None of it’s high art, but it’s all real: dispatches from a weathered old fucker who has lived to tell the tale.
Overall, 13 is about what you’d expect. It could have been better, but it also could have been way, way worse. Despite being more than a little derivative, rather than inspired by their earlier work, it’s a good listen. It won’t be included on any “Best Metal Albums Ever” lists, but these gents already have that covered. It’s not groundbreaking, but striking out into the treacherous wild is not Black Sabbath’s job anymore. They already carved out their frontier. They deserve the right to inhabit it.
Rating: 3/5 Witch Tits
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