Metamorphostyx


Paradise Theater
Styx

Joe (Exterminator) Fernbacher, Creem, 5/81


J was awake. He was also flat on his back. J was awake, flat on his back, and confused. He never knew he had a back before; as a matter of fact, he never knew he was a he before. He began to get uncomfortable. This WAS confusing. Frustrated, J slapped his hand to his head, whispered, “Oh, my go–” and then froze. Confusion and terror shook hands and had a drink. J had never had a hand before, nor a forehead. (WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? INSANE!) His mind reeled. (His MIND?) J stiffened as a little junta of fear rolled through his veins. (VEINS? THIS IS MADNESS!)

J finally settled down. His breathing came soft and slow. Slowly, as if rising from a deep trance, J let his eyes search the room. (ROOM?) He was beginning to understand...Somehow, he’d been transformed, mutated, altered, changed into a...a...(What’s the word?)...a MAN!!

Last night he’d been happily dining on some tasty dung heap and horning after the local meat. Last night J had been a happy little bug--an arachnid, indeed! But now...ugghh. A solemn cloud of loss wafted over J as he recalled his mandibles, his antennae, his chitin, his dung heap. So now he was a man; what was he supposed to do with himself? Looking through his many-eyes (ONLY TWO!), Jo saw the rest of his newly acquired body (TOO BIG!). Must get up from this b...b...bed. Stand on my own--he looked down and counted in disbelief--TWO legs. His new body-home gave a small shudder. Then one of his hands reached out and turned on the stereo (STEREO!).

Startled, J heard odd noises that were at once familiar and alien. He felt himself turning and taking a tentative step. There in that mirror, he saw, for the first time, his whole new body. It WAS big, too big. He shuddered. He reached out for a bottle he’d noticed on a table next to him. His mind registered: BEER. He smiled.

Joe stood there for awhile, taking an occasional sip from the bottle, and played tag with a sense of purpose that had started creeping through his head. He moved swiftly to another machine in the room. His mind registered: TYPEWRITER. He thrust a chubby digit towards a dull white key. His mind registered: REVIEW. Review what? Yes, that music coming from the machine he’d laid before. He would write a review of it. He did not like it; in fact, he really didn’t want to write about it. Why was he driven to do this? His mind registered one last time: CHECK. Joe smiled and began to type.


STYX, Paradise Theater (A&M)

When this troupe of para-metal garrous first stroked the scene, they had a lot of promise. Coming in on the tail end of the first heavy metal era, of BVH (Before Van Halen), they were doing rhythm crazed noise chunks textured with the usual flummery of death's heads, doom-rubes, wolves, witches, satanic litanies--all of those cough syrup philosophies of disintegration lumped together under the cosmic nihilism of the demon blues riff. They were competent in their incompetence, a prime ingredient for any true metal success. They had even managed to pen a classic of sorts. That song from their very first album, "Krakatoa." A geological blues-rhumba told from the point of view of the volcano itself--neat idea, huh? The song was filled with doomsday riffing, some soft lyrical moments and--oh yeah--a smattering of the "Hallelujah Chorus." It was good, and true to the spirit of metal.

Yet, as the skirling gods of metal began to fade and be overrun by the burbling brooks and swaying meadows of a frisbee-flecked new age horizon, Styx floundered. They had missed the point. What to do, they wondered. And so, they changed personnel. Up from that limbo there arose a new, improved, mellower Styx. Chucking off the gritty coil of pur sang metal mambo stench, they settled into a groove that didn’t agitate, didn’t excite and most assuredly was pretentious. They tempered their imagery, tightened their musical texturings, and became lost in the grand illusions of their own devise.

Voila, Paradise Theater, a Styxian "concept" album about a crumbling stage house. Where's Lon Chaney when you need him? And not only is it a concept album, but they've gone totally Hollywood by dressing the album up with their glorious moniker stamped right onto the record. Wow. Of course, if it's a concept album, it therefore must be boring. As stated previously, concept albums are life's way of smacking rock'n'roll in its insolent face. We have to live with them, I suppose, but we don't have to like them. Besides, the last really good concept was original sin, and no rock band has ever tried to make that into a rock opera. Yet.

Paradise Theater is perfect for those dinosaurs who still think that progress, and progressive music, is our most important product. It ain't. And for those who dislike this kind of music to begin with, why are you reading this, anyway?


Joe put down his 32nd beer. He sighed. He had not used any “big” words. He felt content.

Jo began to slip into a comfortable and comforting dull unconsciousness. He smiled sweetly.

J was savoring once more the tart ’n’ tangy taste of his favorite dung heap. Mandibles clicked, a chitter echoed softly into the night. And then everything faded into white as a huge stump of foot exerted a massive pressure downwards and crushed chitin, dislodged mandibles...


© Joe Fernbacher 1981

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