Alright butt-nuggets, listen up and listen good, a real man is talking. I know there have been a lotta laughs up to this point, but the mockery stops here. My name is Andrew Corliss, I’m twenty-seven years old, and my Mom says you’re not allowed to make fun of me for being a libertarian anymore.
That’s right, you heard me. For too long, I’ve had to suffer countless outrageous japes and jesteries from you mindless, group-thinking, Kool-Aid-drinking, jackboot-wearing bureaucrats, but the fun stops here. You all need to get over your addiction to big government and get over your addiction to making fun of my political views. You know why? Because my Mom said so.
Sorry, not sorry. If that offends you, deal with it.
Ever since I can remember, people have teased me for being a free-thinker. They made fun of my “Don’t Tred On Me” bumper stickers. They said that my idea to privatize every major American roadway was “idiotic” and “impractical.” They said that I was insane and paranoid when I told them I owned over twenty guns. But let me ask you this: When the socialist regime that Premier Bidenovich is trying to impose on us all comes knocking at your door to try and force you to sign up to be an organ donor and pay income tax, who are you pencil pushing pussies gonna call to defend you? That’s right. Me! I hate income tax. It takes away the money of good, hard-working Americans and redistributes it to junkies and losers. That’s why I’ve decided that the only job I’ll ever hold is moderating a very prominent Reddit board.
My Mom is one of the free thinkers. One of the only ones who gets it. Ever since I became aware of the limitless potentials of unfettered freedom and pure capitalism in high school, people have been teasing me. Like Jesus (who I don’t care for because he preached wealth redistribution) before me, I have been scorned, ridiculed and told by my dental hygienist that I smell badly. And my Mom is tired of it. She’s tired of you saying these things to me. She tells me so all the time. She tells me what a big, strong boy I’m becoming. That’s why she needs me to still live in her basement. To protect her. Because I’m her big, strong, free-thinking man. Her big, strong, free-thinking mommy man who owns over twenty guns.
Ultimately, I could spend more time, telling you dumb shits all the reasons why libertarianism is the only true political philosophy, how you can learn more from South Park than from the lies taught in our public school curriculum, how every report that I’ve seen shows that our economy would be better if we let children work factory jobs. But that’s not up to me to educate you. You’re an independent person. You can do your own research. As for me, I have to go pick up my girlfriend from school.
1968: Led Zeppelin Introduces the Blues to the United States
1973: Kraftwerk’s Ralf Hütter Discovers the 58008 Trick With His Pocket Calculator
1982: Alleged Fifth Ramone Sues Band for Songwriting Credits
1984: Would-Be Assassin Foiled By Bruce Dickinson’s Codpiece
1987: The Fall’s Mark E. Smith Records Stop Announcements for London Underground
1990: Fugazi’s Guy Picciotto Interrupts Washington Wizards Game by Running Onto Court and Dunking Himself
1991: Michael Winslow Saves The Day After Slash Falls Ill
1997: Iggy Pop Tries in Vain To Cut Himself With a Plastic Beer Bottle
2008: Lars Ulrich Reveals “The Unforgiven III” is About Napster Users
Just like how I’m never going to watch a movie longer than 2.5 hours (fuck you Avatar), I don’t want to hunker down with an hour plus of any album no matter how good it is. And thus lies the biggest issue with Mastodon’s most recent album “Hushed & Grim.” This fucker comes in at a whopping 86 minutes long. That’s too long. In fact, it’s so long that I’ve never once made it to the end. I tried! But I keep getting distracted by Farmville. Am I the only one still playing Farmville?
To my ears, “Once More ‘Round the Sun” is Mastodon’s poppiest attempt at a wider popularity (save for the single “Show Yourself” to come later in 2017). But keep in mind that my ears are barely functional after years of sonic abuse, so maybe I’m way off base here. A listenable but somewhat unmemorable experience, this 2014 LP is a solid half-hour shorter than “Hushed & Grim,” so I have to give it the edge.
There’s nothing wrong with “The Hunter,” per se. But compared to the other albums on this list, it has a far less distinct identity. It’s a proper album with the feel of a B-sides collection. There are some decent songs here though. And the artwork is cool as fuck though. How many jaws does that thing have? Can it even close its mouth? I’m confused and scared.
Maybe their most accessible album, “Emperor of Sand” distills Mastodon’s essence into a batch of kickass prog metal bangers. I mean “accessible” as a compliment here; I could listen to this album three times a day for months on end and never get sick of it. Give this album to every niece and nephew of yours when they turn 12; they’ll thank you in later decades for saving them from a life of shit music.
2006’s “Blood Mountain” sees Mastodon exploring the limits of combining their filthy metal sound with math-rock tendencies, and they succeed with impressive aplomb. Bet you didn’t think you were going to read the word “aplomb” today, well guess what? I used that word a lot now because I learned it in my court ordered anger management class. Guitarists Bill Kelliher and Brent Hinds intertwine their guitar lines in dizzying, intricate patterns. I do wonder what would happen if they continued down this path; maybe it would end in a mathy/reggae/deathcore fusion LP? But they went prog so I guess we’ll never know.
“Fuck yeah.” That’s what I say anytime I listen to this album. I don’t care if I’m sitting at my computer by myself or relaxing in the ballpit of a Chuck E. Cheese with my headphones on giving spoiled little kids the finger. Mastodon’s debut album has a youthful hardcore energy which would dissipate on subsequent albums. Bonus points must be awarded to “Crusher Destroyer” which has been scientifically proven to have the best name for a metal song ever.
Apparently the band considers this compilation of re-recorded demos to be their first album. I didn’t know that before beginning to write this list so I’m listening to it at this very moment. It kicks all kinds of ass very similarly to “Remission,” so I’m just going to tie both of these for third place.
Not only one of Mastodon’s defining statements, but one of the best works of progressive metal ever, 2009’s “Crack the Skye” is everything Dream Theater wishes they could be (i.e. cool). The album contains wacky stories of magic and ghosts and Rasputin. But they never lose sight of the goal; to still bash you over the head with sick metal riffs and great songwriting. Bassist Troy Saunders’ full-throated roars pepper the songs with memorable hooks. The fact that this isn’t Mastodon’s number one album really says something.
I never read “Moby-Dick.” I’m never going to read “Moby-Dick” because I think Herman Melville has a dorky name. But I’ve listened to Mastodon’s crowning achievement “Leviathan” like 200 times, so like, I get it. I bet this album is a better artistic experience than the book anyways. The dark guitars twist and wind into the depths of the sea with no light or hope. The bass provides an ever-shifting foundation of sediment for the band to float on. Drummer Brann Dailor pummels the drums without ever relying on a single stock drum beat. Hang this in the Louvre but also keep a copy in the car for fighting that guy who cut you off at the stoplight.
Screaming Females came out swinging with their scrappy self-recorded and self-released debut. Paternoster cites some of her early musical heroes as Nirvana and Pearl Jam, but the influence of 90s alternative rock would be more apparent on later releases. Instead, “Baby Teeth” revels in its youthful exuberance with thrashy garage-pop, lots of silly lyrics, and even a few forays into ska. Paternoster’s terrific, distinct vocals get much stronger after “Baby Teeth,” though, which means it probably isn’t the album to start with. But if you can’t get enough of this band, it’s a great one to go back to.
The band lives up to their name on their second LP, also self-recorded/released. Paternoster is shouting her head off on the excellent, Pixiesesque opener “Theme Song,” and the record doesn’t let up from there. The band itself sounds harder and meaner, but retains the charm of a group willing to try any song that’s fun to play. Will someone sign these kids already?
Someone did. “Power Move” is the first Screaming Females record to be released on a label— Don Giovanni Records, also based in their home scene of New Brunswick, N.J.— and gives the band the perfect amount of upgrade by improving the sound quality without changing the recipe. It’s the most punk-sounding of the albums listed so far, with loud-quiet-loud dynamics, major keys anchoring melt-your-face guitar riffs, and lyrics that will make your mom ask if you’re doing okay (“The curtains part/The shades are flesh/Second hands turn to knives/You are buried in the nude”). All of this rocking is still accomplished with little to no overdubbing, so good luck being mad that your favorite band is signed now.
If you’re a Screaming Females superfan like I am (or a “Screamer” as I have just unfortunately dubbed us), you’ve probably noticed that so far we’re listing their albums in chronological order. That’s not happenstance or laziness, (we Screamers [this is going to catch on] are notoriously precise and hardworking!), but because for the first half-decade of their career, SF just got stronger with each release. On 2010’s “Castle Talk,” Paternoster’s voice has reached full power, effortlessly shifting from Stevie Nicks warble to wraith-like shriek mid-song. The drums, bass, and guitar are in lockstep with each other from years of sharing the same stage. Musically the songs are more adventurous here— with pretty, emo-ish chord progressions mixed into the record’s hardcore stew. The band started to gain some critical attention from this one, so time to get on the horse or be trampled underfoot. I truly apologize for naming us Screamers (no I don’t).
And now we exit the chronological and enter the preferential! The offerings in the latter half of Screaming Females’ discography are more diverse, so ranking them depends on what your favorite flavor is. Their most recent album is the band’s third with producer Matt Bayles, and though the production is the slickest it’s ever been it manages not to sacrifice the raw power of their sound or make a record that can’t be reproduced live. Paternoster is harmonizing with herself more on this one while taking fun departures into old-school punk (“Desert Train”), hooky radio-rock (“Ornament”) and power-pop that could turn Blondie green with envy (“Mourning Dove”). “Desire Pathway” isn’t afraid to be catchy, and serves as a perfect entry point to the band.
Way back in high school, Marissa Paternoster and Mike Abbate started playing music together under the tutelage of a math teacher who forced them to learn Phish songs and called it “Music Club.” The alternative/punk-leaning pair found themselves immune to the charms of the hippy jam band institution (but do yourself a favor and check out the Sugarbush 07/16/1994 rendition of “Run Like an Antelope.” Tell me your third eye doesn’t open a little bit!), but they would credit these early lessons with teaching them to improvise. Much later, in 2018, those skills show up big time on the weird and ambitious masterpiece “All At Once.” The band absolutely shreds on this one– their proggiest record by far. It starts with their best opener before or since (“Glass House”) and over its 15 tracks it leaves few stones unturned in its gleeful classic rock revelry (there’s even a Skynardesque, neo-soul ballad with “Bird In Space”). In less deft hands the result could be messy, but every Music Club indulgence yields beautiful results here.
With the heat of “Castle Talk” and years of touring behind them, Screaming Females finally got the Steve Albini Treatment. Since there wasn’t much frill here for Albini to trim, “Ugly” goes straight to the work of capturing the live feel of Screaming Females, and gives the listener the sense of hearing them play to a big room with a mosh pit for one. More than anything, “Ugly” sounds loud— Dougherty’s drums are more to the front of the mix than they’ve ever been, Abbate’s bass is rattling with fuzz, and Pasternator takes many gain-drenched, feedback-squealing guitar solos way into the red. The songs are the most abrasive of the band’s career, and it’s their longest album at 54 minutes, rewarding multiple plays through with the volume as loud as you can stand it.
For a songwriter who has said she doesn’t write songs that are about one thing in particular, “Rose Mountain” contains Marissa Paternoster’s most evocative lyrics yet. The record addresses dealing with chronic sickness and pain, after cutting the tour supporting “Ugly” short to deal with Paternoster’s initially undiagnosed illness of fibromyalgia. “Hopeless” is a break-up song addressed to one’s own body. “Ripe” practically dares an unnamed assailant to do their worst, with a repeated plea to “peel the skin raw,” and “pinch ‘til the feeling’s gone.” The only title track of the band’s career is named after Rose Mountain Care Center, a rehab in Paternoster’s native North Jersey that she saw as a child and dreamed of one day going to to get well. It’s not surprising that music so preoccupied with bodies and pain is among the band’s most visceral; it’s lean and direct at 35 minutes, only coming up for air long enough in a few spots to plunge you right back into its seething rage. Paternoster’s guitar work here pays homage to the ‘90s rock legends that inspired her to pick the instrument up as a teenager, and the album’s stellar closer “Criminal Image” wouldn’t sound out of place nestled with the best tracks on Siamese Dream. From the peak of “Rose Mountain” you can see everything the band has done before and after perfectly coalescing into their most cohesive, confident, and yearning collection of songs.