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Today the world says goodbye to Slayer guitarist Jeff Hanneman.

Slayer are, as I mentioned in my History of Metal, the one group in thrash’s “Big Four” that seem to have maintained the highest level of credibility among listeners throughout the decades since their emergence. Their raw sound, disturbing lyrics, frantic tempos, and chaotic solos might keep all but the pathologically curious at bay, and I must admit my own appreciation for Slayer came rather late; but I for one eventually learned their sound is not raw as much as it is genuine, their lyrics are not disturbing as much as they are revealing, their tempos not frantic but exhilarating, and their solos…well, I can’t tell how calculated they are, but I cannot imagine that anything more polished sounding would seem appropriate in the context of their songs.

I was first exposed to Slayer when the bassist in my high school band suggested we learn “Skeletons of Society.” We rehearsed it, but never got to perform it. Many years later, I would suggest to the members of Avengers Assemble! that we prepare “Seasons in the Abyss” as a set-opener. Could there be any better song to open a club show? Hardly.

We must all rock considerably harder to fill the void left by Hanneman’s departure.

I turned 40 this year. Such an arbitrary milestone, yet so ingrained in our culture that as it passes, one often pauses to reflect on the implications of middle-age. My god, I realize, I have outlived Mozart and Charlie Parker! And yet what have I accomplished? Time seems to move so much more quickly now; I have spent ages to reach this point, but I expect to double that lifetime, fates willing, in what will surely seem like moments. I can only hope, futilely, to savor the best moments within those moments with a deeper appreciation than I ever cultivated throughout my impatient youth.

I have reached a point where I need to carefully choose what pet projects I undertake, for fear that time will not allow their fruition. One of my current projects is learning Japanese. When faced with the prospect of spending years on a subject, only to achieve a basic level of proficiency, with no practical applicable use for the skill (not a lot of Japanese speakers around here, and what companies will hire someone bilingual who is almost completely unlikely to relocate?), I asked myself, Is there an age at which one must stop trying to learn new things for the mere sake of learning? Wouldn’t my time be better spent improving my family relationships, securing our family’s financial future, and mentoring the next generation of employees at my workplace — in other words, leaving the world a bit neater than when I entered?

Then I imagined how I might react if I witnessed a friend from the previous generation taking up something new. If an older coworker told me she was starting a business, learning an instrument, or taking up creative writing, would I pity them for starting too late in life, and risking time on something that may never pay them back for their effort? Of course I suspect we all would react in quite the opposite manner, with a nod and a smile, and a “Good for you! That sounds exciting.”

So why should I treat myself any differently? And why should anyone fear new long-term experiences, solely because they might be interrupted by death? I would suggest two good reasons for taking the opposing viewpoint — that no time is better than now to begin learning something new, no matter the commitment or challenge.

First, realize that you study for the benefit of others as much as for yourself. Take language, for example: Peter has decided to study French, and after a few months doesn’t feel like he has gotten anywhere. He only gets to use it once, when a French speaker asks him for directions to Johnson Street via car. What Peter doesn’t know is that by aiding the French tourist, he made it possible for the tourist to catch a flight with only a couple of minutes to spare — fewer minutes than it might have taken to drive in circles looking for Johnson Street. The French man had to cut a business trip short to rush to the death bed of an estranged relative, who has requested his presence. Relationships in the man’s family are repaired, and new opportunities arise down the road — a special deal on a home, perhaps, or a bigger share of a will. Years later, as the Frenchman recalls the time he came through for his family, he may be unlikely to remember Peter from Madison, Wisconsin as being a critical link in that chain of events. There were so many other things going on — maybe he struggled with slow service while refilling the rental car’s fuel tank, or perhaps he marvels at how lucky he was to avoid a pedestrian by mere inches as he rushed through the labyrinthine one-way streets. This story doesn’t end with Peter saying “Thank heavens I was able to save the day with my French skills;” he is oblivious to the impact he made.

Here is another example: An elderly woman purchases an organ, hoping to entertain herself with some simple songs. She doesn’t get very far with it, but her grandson spends some time with the instrument. The experience is one of many that inspires him to continue studying music into his adulthood. While he may never find a career in the music field, he eventually does find enough work at clubs and special events that Grandmother’s investment has paid him back several times over. She has left the earth long before she was able to witness her grandson’s development as a musician, so she never had a chance to be proud of having planted the seed that grew in him.

When you take up a new interest, you do so partly for the benefit of others. Reason number one that it is always a good time to learn something new:

1. You can be grateful ahead of time for having taken an interest, on behalf of those who you might impact later.

But will this happen in every case? Will your pursuits necessarily have an impact on others? And what if you die friendless, without a family? Who is there to benefit? You are, naturally. Even if you don’t see a payback from your studies, you have already reaped their benefits.

I study guitar because, among other reasons, I like to demonstrate what I have learned on stage. There are many guitarists who never perform live. Do you think they regret having studied? We have heard adages about the journey being as rewarding as the destination. Tired as it is, this sentiment is absolutely true.

I feel pretty good when I am performing with other musicians, putting our faith in our skills — always a semitone away from a wrong note, a split-second away from a missed entry. Live performance can be like a high wire act, carefully choreographed and rehearsed, but with an underlying sense of impending disaster. The rush, for both audience and performer, is intoxicating. A live performance is a product I and my bandmates have developed. We pass it on into the hands of the listeners, who take it home with them.

But I find just as much appeal in private practice sessions and rehearsals. Working out problems, correcting bad habits, pushing the limits of my stamina and technical fluency — this is play as much as it is work. For the practitioner of a craft, the process is the product. During the Middle Ages, it took decades to build some castles and cathedrals. Many stone masons and carpenters are likely to have spent their entire lifetimes on projects whose completion they would never witness. Do you suppose they lamented their fate? Today’s scientists are laboring over concepts that could eventually have tremendous applications, in technology power management and data storage, interstellar exploration, human longevity — yet cannot fathom what role their contributions will have played hundreds of years from now. Does this discourage them? Thus…

2. The very act of learning any subject or skill is an end unto itself.

Do something interesting. Any reason is good enough.

Jazz seems to be on a decline. Here in Madison, I have seen most of the (already few) clubs that hosted live jazz either change their format or close their doors. In this article by Kurt Ellenberger, we learn that not only are audiences less likely than ever to attend live jazz or classical performances; but our suspicion that they only need to be taught an appreciation through structured academic programs is wrong.

Ellenberger refers to this as “The Education Fallacy.” Data collected clearly shows a negative correspondence between jazz education and concert attendance. If we cannot instill an appreciation for live jazz and classical music in the schools, we leave young adults to discover this music amidst a pop culture environment that discourages the development of active listening skills — a frightening consideration.

There is a glint of hope, revealed in the comments, where readers suggest the problem lies not in the audience’s lack of interest in these styles of music, but in a waning capacity to enjoy live shows. In our living rooms, we are free to concentrate on the subtleties of music with little distraction, at virtually no cost beyond the initial acquisition of the recording. Perhaps audiences are as sophisticated as ever, enough at least to seek listening experiences that are untainted by the peripheral hassle of attending clubs and concert halls. The artist’s new challenge is to deliver something in person that cannot be replicated in a digital file.

This is part of a mission I am undertaking. I am in the process of assembling a group that is based on the premise that no music is good enough to bring people into clubs, but a musical performance can be. I have mentioned it in passing, and I’ll continue to keep you updated.

I have a theory about what coffee and wine have in common: With either, when you first try it, you don’t care what you’re getting. Once you get into it, you care what you get. Then, once you’ve gotten quite deeply into it, you don’t care what you’re getting.

Maybe there is something to this three-stage model of discovery, because an article by tech blogger Rian van der Merwe reminded me of the three stages of discovering Miles Davis’s album Kind of Blue:

1. The casual jazz listener, on the advice of aficionados, acquires the album. It becomes his go-to album, because the textures are soothing and the melodies are accessible.
2. The serious jazz listener, having the ability to comprehend and appreciate more complex styles, loses interest in Kind of Blue, partly because of its slow pace and mellow mood, partly because it is familiar enough to have worn out its first impression.
3. The enlightened listener begins noticing subtle traces of genius beneath the album’s modest surface, and his ability to enjoy it returns with an updated perspective.

As I write this, I recall something similar I recently told a fellow musician during a barroom discussion of Mozart: “First you like him because of his pretty melodies, then you learn about music enough to recognize that the classical era is dreadfully boring, then you learn enough more to be able to pick up on subversive little touches, and you then realize why Mozart was so brilliant.”

Anyway, here is Rian’s article, in which he suggests lessons we can learn from Kind of Blue. This is a good read for anyone who creates, not just musicians:

Article: A story about Miles Davis and the nature of true genius

And if you don’t yet have Kind of Blue, for Pete’s sake, get it! You can purchase it through the link below for the price of a meal at McDonald’s, and you’ll be supporting the site in doing so:

May I present this video of a performance of Erik Satie’s Vexations:

And here is the related Wikipedia article, a rather interesting read: Vexations (Wikipedia)

In The Time of Music: New Meanings, New Temporalities, New Listening Strategies, Jonathan Kramer writes the following reaction:

But then I found myself moving into a different listening mode. I was entering the vertical time of the piece. My present expanded, as I forgot about the music’s past and future. I was no longer bored. And I was no longer frustrated because I had given up expecting. I had left behind my habits of teleological listening. I found myself fascinated with what I was hearing…True, my attention did wander and return, but during the periods of attending I found the composition to hold great interest. I became incredibly sensitive to even the smallest performance nuance, to an extent impossible when confronting the high information content of traditional music. When pianists traded off at the end of their twenty-minute stints, the result was an enormous contrast that opened a whole new world, despite their attempt to play as much like each other as possible. What little information I found in the music was in the slight performance variability, not in the notes or rhythms.

It seems Kramer has echoed a more succinct statement by John Cage:

In Zen they say: If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, try it for eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and so on. Eventually one discovers that it’s not boring at all, but very interesting.

When I first got into Meshuggah, I couldn’t figure out how to tag them. Progressive? Experimental? Their lead guitarist, Fredrik Thordendal, has given us a word for it: “Djent” is an onomatopoeia, referring to the crunchy, stabbing guitar sound that pervades Messhugah’s music. Since the introduction of the term, other bands have been described as djent.

The most impressive feature of Meshuggah’s music is its dizzying syncopation. Often, you hear a cymbal grinding out quarter notes while the rest of the rhythm section chugs through labyrinthine polymetric riffs:

Maryland band Periphery expand on Meshuggah’s formula with increased melodicism and flashier guitar work:

Hailing from the Netherlands, Textures offers a take on djent that is more atmospheric. I especially enjoy “Sanguine Draws the Oath,” partly because of the undeniably Mike Patton-esque vocals in the chorus (first heard at 1:29).

Several have criticized the use of “djent” as a genre label, arguing that it is merely a term meant to describe a guitar tone. However, once any nomenclature has been established within a certain context, it becomes a cultural habit that is nigh impossible to break.

Apart from “Nü-Metal,” which is universally abhored, Metalcore is likely the most reviled metal subgenre among traditionalists. It is so-named because it borrows elements of hardcore punk, and is therefore a natural extension of grindcore and crossover. For that reason, I regard it as no less genuine than any other metal style. Browse the forums, however, and you quickly get a different impression. I once asked the metal-archives.com staff why several prominent metalcore bands were not included in their Encyclopaedia Metallum, and the terse answer was, “Because we only include real metal bands.”

I find it difficult to understand how these artists can be considered so distant in style as to be discounted from the repertoire. They utilize many of the same musical techniques, especially in the guitars. What’s different about metalcore is mostly in the vocals and drums. Vocals are screamed, not in a menacing manner befitting black metal, but in a fit of youthful rage. This, and a tendency to promote “straightedge” lifestyles, are the punk elements that put the “-core” in metalcore. Drum patterns are more complex than ever — even approaching a post-bop jazz sound at times.Tempo and meter changes are frequent and sudden enough to humble the most accomplished prog rockers.

The guitar solo is no longer  the centerpiece of most arrangements, but soloistic guitar riffs in a higher register provide backing for verses. Guitarists flail away at dissonant intervals as though they only just discovered half-steps.

The Dillinger Escape Plan are arguably the most relevant metalcore band. Their music, and that of others like Into the Moat, Ion Dissonance, From a Second Story Window, The Number Twelve Looks Like You, and PsyOpus, is commonly labeled “mathcore” because of its extreme complexity.

Another subcategory of metalcore is “melodic metalcore,” here represented by All That Remains:

As you might imagine, All That Remains’s melodicism has helped them establish more credibility with purists than other metalcore artists.

Finally we come to deathcore — a currently popular subgenre that fuses the growls and guitar riffs of death metal with the breakdowns of metalcore. Despised Icon is one such group:

Mr. Bungle is a group that has has a significant impact on musicians while remaining largely unknown among the general public. Fronted by Michael Patton, himself better recognized as the vocalist for Faith No More, they began as a sort of novelty group. In their first, self-titled album, their music is an amalgam of ska, jazz and thrash; and their lyrics deal with subjects far removed from the usual, such as the properties of an egg, having to put down a family dog, myriad porn fetishes, and surreal portraits, like that of a quadriplegic mute at a discotheque.

Their sophomore release, Disco Volante, is in my opinion a masterwork to be ranked with the likes of The White Album. It opened my eyes to how the studio can be used as an instrument. It seems that Disco Volante marks a point at which Patton’s musical maturity is fully realized. He utilizes his voice not merely as a means for delivering lyrics, but as a means of contributing to the arrangement, using whatever sounds necessary. In “Carry Stress in the Jaw,” Mr. Bungle delivers a brilliant collage of hardcore, metal, free jazz, and art song, followed by the album’s hidden track (hidden in plain sight after track three, not at the end of the album as per convention).

At this point, the Downtown New York scene was thriving; and John Zorn himself had produced Mr. Bungle’s first album. From the mid-90′s on, Patton and Zorn would be regular collaborators.

Mr. Bungle released only three studio albums, each bringing something different to the table. Their third, California, explored more conventional song styles (e.g. surf-rock, doo-wop, pop ballad); but a couple of stand-out tracks, including “Ars Moriendi,” represent their experimental side under moderation:

Mr. Bungle’s first album was released in 1989, long before the “rap-metal” of late 90′s artists Limp Bizkit, Korn, and other so-called “Nü Metal” artists, but Bungle’s spirit and sound echo through every decidedly non-traditionalist metal act to the present.

Although no other group totally captures the essence of Mr. Bungle, some come close. Idiot Flesh is one. Their third album, Fancy, while inconsistent, has some clever moments. Songwriting credits for “Chicken Little” include vocalist Nils Frykdahl, along with composers Béla Bartók, Pierre Boulez, and Iannis Xenakis.

We’re getting to a point where several major subgenres are being re-split into sub-subgenres. Some, like “blackened thrash” and “death ‘n’ roll,” are not prolific enough to be featured in a history. But Melodic Death certainly is. It was big in the 90′s, and continues to be one of the most listened-to metal styles today.

Melodic death bears some traits of Florida-type death metal, but its point of divergence is an increased melodicism in the guitars. Vocals are still growled, but guitar riffs are often based on the same phrygian, diminished, and harmonic minor sounds as earlier forms of metal. Tempos are often slower, with fewer blast beats and more classic rock grooves. The net result is a style that satisfies those who crave the brutal sounds of extreme metal without alienating the casual listener.

Some of the pioneers of the melodic death style include At the Gates, Dark Tranquility, and In Flames, all of whom were from Sweden. Because this movement was highly localized, it is sometimes referred to as “Gothenburg metal.” One group from Gothenburg, Arch Enemy, was founded by ex-Carcass guitarist Michael Amott (Carcass themselves, a British band, also being integral to 90′s melodic death). After two albums, they found a replacement singer in Angela Gossow; and this lineup has been very successful.

Metal is usually a marriage of musicianship and spectacle — powerful music, often masterfully performed, coupled with theatrical presentation. But the Norwegians have a tradition of blurring theatrics with reality. Black metal represents the darkest possible contingent within metal.

The black metal image is engineered to shock and provoke. Whereas death metal musicians wrote songs about corpses, black metal musicians strive to look like corpses. Some black groups routinely decorate their stages with pig and goat heads. In black metal, metal’s detached fascination with gore and tragedy crosses the fourth wall.

Musically, black metal is close to death metal in its use of blast beats and tremolo-picked riffs, but the singers screech rather than growl, and there is less variation in song forms. Black metal can easily sound like a wall of noise from start to finish; but some black groups temper their hyper-noisy arrangements with keyboards, and a sub-class of black metal called Viking metal hearkens to ancient Norse folk music.

Norway is a nation in religious turmoil. Although it is home to a higher percentage of atheists and agnostics than most other countries, it retains vestiges of a theocracy founded after the Reformation. The royal family is required to be Lutheran, and at least one half of the state government must belong to the state church. Some idealistic youth are offended by Christianity’s encroachment on indigenous pagan traditions. Many of these youth are integral to the black metal scene. Some have become notorious for engaging in a church-burning campaign. For them, black metal is protest music. To the rest of us, this is a bit too intense — a situation best left to run its course. Classic shock-rocker Alice Cooper, on the other hand, claims to see through the menacing exterior:

The closest thing to black metal in my collection is the album Demigod, by Behemoth. These are not strictly a black band, but cross the line between death and black, inspiring the highly specific tag “blackened death.” This sort of hair-splitting is quite common in modern parlance.