What came out of the Canyon Club speakers was righteous. The song, "Crown of Thorns," the first track on Avenger, is a riotous standout on disc, but its lyrical content -- revolving mostly around a character who can be described as either a sword-and-sorcery comic book hero/villain or a captain of an army of Crusaders -- gives a listener nothing really to connect to or empathize with. Live, it was something else. A bruising, medium-tempo, foot-stomping rhythm was a 300-horsepower engine that only a cadaver in a bad mood could have resisted banging his head to. Over it, a simple, steady, rhythmic chord progression effortlessly and perfectly served the vocal melody. "I am command-ah," Call sang in a tone that was at once threatening and confident. And here, as with call-and-response blues, the dual guitars downshifted quickly into a neat little sidetrack of a riff and then promptly returned to the course before Call began again: "I ride the hellllllllm." Guitars downshifted. "Armored defenders of the reallllllm!" Then the guitars downshifted once more and stayed in gear a little longer before resuming the jaunt. After that, a breakdown culminated in a full stop and Call's delivery of the lines, in his best draconian accent, "The crown of thorns." Which was when this fan experienced a mini-epiphany: A lot of music sounds great at high volume, but nothing can compare with balls-to-the-wall metal when it comes to energizing a listener. The lyrics initially sounded simplistic when coming through my quaint home stereo system, but in the context of loud, electrified guitars they spoke to my inner savage, the guy to whom being "command-ah" and "riding the helm" don't sound like bad ways to spend an afternoon. Judas Priest, I thought, better watch out. A few hours later, the Canyon Club began filling up. The line that had stretched down the long corridor that led to the bowling alley didn't get any shorter, though. Young white kids you'd mistake for rednecks in any other social situation, wearing black T-shirts bearing the names of famous heavy metal bands, made bee-lines for the stage. A half hour before starting time and the "dance floor" area between the stage and main bar was just about full. By the time Aska hit the middle of their set, performing the crowd-pleaser, "Blood of the Wolf," the fans were rocking. Not a trace of irony could have been found within 100 yards of the building. When before launching into "Blood of the Wolf," Call asked -- with a straight face -- if he could "hear all the werewolves tonight," he got a few dozen "Ahh-ooooo"'s in return. When Call played his Gibson Flying V behind his head, he received a few hearty whistles. And when, between songs, Call delivered a short sermon about what he thought "true" heavy metal was, he got a raucous ovation. Right then power metal was a country unto itself, and George Call was vying for the office of its president.
There was no real let-down after the Priest show, when the guys from Aska actually got to hang out for a little while with the superstars. There were more gigs to get ready for, after all. The next one was at a two-story pool hall in Arlington which goes by the slightly ridiculous name of Fast Freddy's. The drummer for the opening act, TYR, was going to be sitting in for Damon, who had just given the Aska boys the news that it was time to hang up the sticks: He had been feeling the crunch of working full-time, keeping up maintenance on his new house, and spending his weekend nights either rehearsing or gigging. Everyone in Aska saw Damon's exit coming; the band had been auditioning drummers steadily since before the Priest concert. The night of the Fast Freddy's gig, while hanging out by the bar before TYR took the stage, Call broke the news to me: "We got our new drummer, man," he said. "And he's here tonight, but he's not playing." Keeping a steady drummer has always been a problem for the band -- even though, according to Call, drummers around town basically line up outside Aska's rehearsal space for auditions every time there's an opening behind the kit. This go-around was reportedly no different. The guy Aska has landed is, by all accounts, their best yet. "He doesn't look like a rocker," Call said of Danny White, "but, man, is he amazing." By now, Aska -- except for their drummer, who hadn't shown up yet -- had congregated in this corner of the bar where Call was holding court. Call got distracted by some particularly female fans, and along came Norton to take Call's place near me. Norton's a relative newbie in the band. He replaced Knapp about a year ago when Knapp became "born again" and not only quit the band but swore off heavy metal music completely. Norton was Knapp and Call's guitar technician for about a year before he joined Aska full-time. The ride has been, Norton said, so far, so good. Norton is the only steady member of Aska who holds what could be considered a full-time job: He works with cars. But like Call and Knight, Norton thinks of himself as a full-time, full-blown professional musician. The time hasn't come yet for him -- or anyone else still in the band -- to make that decision all artists dread: When to give up on your art because it's not paying the bills. Here's where one of Call's metaphors is appropriate: He says he envisions himself climbing a ladder -- is he going up or down? At this point, to hear Call tell it, he's definitely moving up. Right alongside him, he believes, are Knight and Norton and, pretty soon, Danny White. As Norton was talking about balancing a career with "a job," a tan guy in jeans and a white tank top, wearing a bandana, walked in with two young women, and he and his entourage exchanged happy greetings with Norton and the rest of Aska. It didn't come out until later, after Aska had begun performing, that the guy in the bandana used to play drums in the band, and, according to him, had "never been paid once." Throughout the night, there was a lot of tension in the air. After Aska finished their set and bandana-man, his girlfriends, and I finished a few games of billiards, the tension became palpable. The guys in Aska remained near the stage while bandana-man and his ladies stood near the bar. I traveled back and forth between the two groups, trying to be neutral, and I got it on both sides. "Don't believe a word out of George Call's mouth." "That chick is with a different guy every night." "They never said, 'Thank you,' or anything." "Why do you think they're here? They're just trying to start shit." And on it went: The soap opera that is Fort Worth-Dallas' heavy metal scene. NEXT » |
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