BLUNTED IN THE OM SHELTER
There is a man standing in a large, darkened room. This room is full of other people and the air is thick with their sweat and breath. The walls are wet from it, the floor slippery. It probably stinks too, but the man doesn’t smell it. In this room he can hardly feel any of his senses. There’s something happening off in one of the corners, something weird, that everyone can feel, but can’t quite see or hear properly. The man is squinting through the crowd, in the direction of the feeling, and for a moment thinks he sees someone, something, squinting back.
You don't need this paragraph because it doesn't relate to the music in a clear way.
As time passes, the strange sensation that everyone can feel becomes so huge and powerful that the whole room evolves into one big disorientated mess. The man suddenly realises he has no idea how long he’s been in this room for. Then he realises he can’t remember how he got to this room. Then he realises he doesn’t care. As this unrelenting phenomenon grows and grows, the man slowly, unconsciously, decides to accept this moment totally on it’s own terms, and for an instant, loses all concept of past or future, surrendering himself to the immortal state of Right-Fucking-Now.
This one is a little bit easier to understand how it might relate to the music's effects on the listener but still isn't clear. You tend to stretch metaphors well past their breaking points.
As the world around him slows down to almost nothing, the man first senses a feeling of weightlessness in the top of his head, slowly travelling down his spine, into his diaphragm and upwards to his throat, until finally, arms outstretched, his eyes open but unfocused and with his head rolling back on his shoulders he lets out a mighty yell, an ecstatic wail, in an undeniable expression of pure being.
The man is YOU and he’s been listening to OM – LIVE AT JERUSALEM¹.
You explain this much better latter on, someone yells loudly. This section is a classic example of purple prose, an unnecessarily flowery description of someone yelling. With all of those words there is also little description, it's a mighty ecstatic yell. You can cut almost all of these early paragraphs without loosing much.
MOMMY WHAT'S A OM?
Headings should be descriptive, and honestly most reviews are too short to need them. When you trim it down to make the writing more efficient the headings can go too.
Although the event of this man hollering beautifully in appreciation of the sound of Om actually happened at the gig these recording are taken from, and is not only wonderfully audible on this record but is also SO LOUD that it’s impossible to ignore, that’s not really what I’m talking about here. Because where other live albums document a gig or series of gigs, LIVE AT JEREUSALEM does not. And where other live albums at their best serve as a band-in-their-prime Greatest Hits set, LIVE AT JERUSALEM emphatically does not. LIVE AT JERUSALEM does something else altogether, and that’s why I’m not writing about it as a record; I’m writing about it as an experience. BUT I’m not writing about it as the live experience of being there either; I’m writing about it as the experience of listening to the live record. So uh, yeah.
This is kinda confusing, you explain it doesn't try to document a gig or be a greatest hits live record. What does it do? Underlined portion is redundant.
Let’s face it, most live albums fall into the two categories above; warts ‘n’ all document or Greatest Hits set, or worse yet, rely on some kinda back-story to fire the listener’s imagination or elevate the music to something beyond what’s there. I remember as a young kiddo, on holiday in France, snaffling up a cheap copy of Jimi Hendrix’s live at Woodstock album (my first double CD, daddy!) & being so giddy with excitement and anticipation that I was practically EATING THE CD BOOKLET WITH MY EYES to placate myself until we got back to where I was staying so I could slap the CD in the player, strap myself in & get ready to HAVE MY MIND INSTANTLY FUCKED FOREVER!!! Of course the album’s passable versions of Purple Haze, Voodoo Chile et al interspersed with some (admittedly ferocious at times) jamming hardly kept me awake never mind change my life. In fact it’s one of the rare albums I bought that I don’t even own anymore. Loaned it to someone and never bothered chasing to get it back. Weirdly the same guy who has my 1st copy of VARIATIONS ON A THEME, but of course I bought that one again because it's a stone-cold-classic.
AAAAAAAAAAAaaaaanyway,
This stuff isn't relevant to the music you are reviewing. You already addressed the types of live albums.
LIVE AT JERUSALEM is full of wonderful fucking mystery and plays fast and loose with the facts. Unlike Hendrix (or whoever) at Woodstock there’s only a handful of things you need to know about this “gig” and they’re all dubious as fuck anyway.
1. An obvious one, but supposedly recorded in Jerusalem. I mean REALLY? Now I have more faith in Om than most but even I’d be surprised that the band who left the US fucking twice or something went to all the way to Jerusalem to do THIS… then again, maybe they are that perverse.
2. Supposedly “live”, although the totally perfect and supremely clear-in-the-mix with nice separation vocals on Bhima’s Theme would suggest otherwise, given the nature of Al’s singing on most bootlegs, and also given that they completely kick the arse off the vocals on even the studio version.
3. Om supposedly played for 8 or 9 hours at this gig, and while I instantly believe two of the doods who had recorded an hour long song in the past would attempt an 9 hour gig, I think it’s a kinda ropey concept for a band who had only three fairly short albums and a couple singles under their belts by this point. I mean we’d be talking over 6 hours of extra material they’d have to conjure/jam up. Besides, the drugs would definitely wear off over the course of the gig, unless they had a stone-roadie bong-feeding them hits or giving them noseblasts while they played.
This can be trimmed up a lot, but it has some nice details about the mix and the album's origins.
After this you are on your own, and more than most records I've heard, even having an idea of the band you're listening to doesn't help you out much.
This is unclear.
CLEAR AS MUD
When you drop the needle on this record you can hear someone in the murky distance introducing something... maybe a song... or the buffet is open... or someone's taxi is here... it's hard to say for sure. Then, also in the distance, you have a deep fizzling rumble like the grand canyon emitted a gigantic perpetual fart. There are massive resonant objects colliding with each other, these are also in the distance, in fact everything you hear when you spin this disc is in some blackened semi-distinguishable corner of the near-distance.
Except the cymbal. The cymbal is VERY NEAR you and is so, so, so fucking loud. The drummer absolutely goes to town on the bell of this cymbal like it was a button that kept the world spinning and it will definitely give you hearing damage. Yes, although most of this record is so fucked it's hard to tell who or what is making any particular sound, the cymbal is undoubtedly played by the graceful and merciless right arm of Chris Hakius. You can tell it's him because the love Chris Hakius has for the bell of his cymbal is truly something from the plot of an epic romantic novel.
This is very descriptive, I'd bet if the entire review were written similarly it would be acceptable. Should say "off" in the first paragraph instead of "of."
I can only hope she loves him back as much, although I suspect Chris would be happy to love her forever from literally arm's length away, and want for nothing in this world as long as he could listen to her sing sweet, metallic and true to the rhythm of his heart. Truly he is a lucky man.
This really kills the romance novel joke and takes the metaphor too far.
Once the sense of rhythm is established by that unrelenting tolling of Hakius' sweetheart then the rumbling mucktone burbling underneath straightens and rights itself in my ears and into the always confusing riff of Flight Of The Eagle. I've been listening to this song for what, 12 years now? And I've never fully trained my mind to hear that intro riff the right way round, despite hearing it repeated for over and over with impeccable drum accompaniment directly after the intro. What's that all about?
A nice example to describing the music using a reference to a specific moment.
May it disorientate us forevermore. Some people think they need drugs to get that kick but they don't really, they just need to be suitably disorientated and Flight Of The Eagle is a tremendous way to do it without putting anything in your bloodstream and therefore without the fucking police even having a clue. Yes I'll blow into your little tube officer, hold on a moment while I blast this song and become even more pie-eyed than before while I'm at it hee hee
Then I imagine both I and the officer would just sway about like bin bags on valium in a slight breeze and be confused brothers forever. You can't put a price on that kind of thing really.
These parts are completely unnecessary and irrelevant. You can explain how the music has a drug-like effect because of xyz, but these asides are distracting and inflate the length of your writing.
But back to this recording. As usual, Al's bass sound is like two massive, massive highly-aroused gonads filled with 100% pure manna, which will never, never, never ejaculate, but they WILL impregnate the world continuously and forever with their tremendous vibes just by sheer charm and the glint in their owner's eye. "Oh take me into your arms, Al's bass sound's gonad's owner!!!" shriek all the female entities of the Universe. "Let's forget everything and dance away the rest of our hearing and youth to your wonderful fuzz-voice!!!"
And lo, the universe did swoon and sway and sigh contentedly as Al's big bass burred all the way through this particular take of Flight Of The Eagle and it was just grand, just like the good old days and the whole thing was feeling nostalgic before it was even over. I suppose there isn't a lot to say about Flight Of The Eagle that hasn't already been said. It's just an expertly semi-written unknowable jet-black monolith in the massive jigsaw of perfectly square pieces that make up Om's holy discography, no more, no less.
So the bass sound is massive, all the other text is a fluffed up unclear metaphor.
It is however a real pleasure and a marvel to hear Al's bass sound in this particularly shitey lo-fi semi-semi-audible context, and it's impressive that it sounds not only as good as it does on the studio records, it sounds about 3 hectares larger in the wild.
You convey more information here in one sentence than in the preceding two paragraphs.
I don't know if you can remember what you were doing on the night of December 5th 2007 but I bet it was fucking great. Whatever it was, it was Al's bass sound it made that happen. I looked back through my diary, and you know, it never seemed to remarkable at the time, but while Al's bass was rumbling through Jerusalem it must have been about the same time I had that tremendous blow-job while that primo-quality speed-bomb exploded into my bloodstream, as I ate the best ever ice-cream of my life and I won £50 on a scratchcard with my free hand. So deep thanks to Al's bass sound from me, and hopefully from you too, you ungrateful bastard.
I have no idea what you are going for here but you can cut all of it.
WELL AL BE DAMNED
Also significantly different from the studio recordings is the other third of Om's sound; Al's voice. There's something deeply endearing about Al's singing, you know. Although he mostly sounds like a cross between Bob Dylan, Pandit Pran Nath and a stoned duck, I just find it touching how he strains his every sinew to sing in tune(ish) despite the fact that his whole body is juddering with absolute ecstasy.
Listening to Al sing on this song, a kind of patriotic feeling swells up in me for no good reason, like I watched Gigi Buffon and Rino Gattuso deliver a particularly spirited version of the Italian national anthem before a World Cup quarter final. I'm not Italian, I have no idea what they're singing about and if I did it would probably be quite shite, but it bursts my heart anyway. Actually I probably have even less idea what Al is singing about in his allegedly English lyrics but there's a veritable sunrise in my chest as I hear him fight with every inch of his being to hit those notes despite being severely debilitated by sheer pride.
I would sing an anthem from Om you know. I would swear allegiance to the flag of Om, if Om weren't so righteous to reject the notion of flags and borders. Yes, this is ecstatic music in a new form. And where Pandit Pran Nath could achieve no less than actual ecstasy by virtue of his perfect singing, Al achieves no less than actual singing by the virtue of his perfect ecstasy.
Flight Of The Eagle features Al in prime duckpuff mode, but the flip-side, a cavernous racket that is supposed to be Bhima's Theme is a different kettle of cannabinoids. I like having a loving pop at Al's vocals for being so unashamedly flat as a week-old pancake and thin as John Cooper Clarke at Ramadan. But this live version of Bhima's Theme comes along and shuts my lying fingers the fuck up.
The third paragraph of the above four can go, rest can be trimmed up but aren't too bad.
Except it actually DOESN'T because it's obviously an overdub added at a later date and my fingers are having a fucking RIOT with this one Cisneros! AHAHAHA!!! There is a SHIT-TONNE of meaning to be found in this overdub and my fingers are hungry for it, hungry to type it out all over this screen. But I'll reign them in a bit because I love you dearly, reader.
The idea of a vocal overdub on a live Om recording is hilarious and righteous because it proves that there is actually some weird kind of Quality Control department at Om towers, and of all the things they decided were unfit for our ears on this release it was Al's vocals on ONE song. FUCK YES!!!
It's going to be OK listener, it's all going to be fine. Al & Chris have been through this release with a fine comb and those piercing cymbal hits and 60% audible bass frequencies are just as Om intended. Stop thinking so much you spoiled little fanny. Lord knows I'm trying. This is the same Quality Control team that decided they needed to do those absolutely bizarre bass punch-ins on the CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS version of At Giza. What could they possibly be covering up with those overdubs that would be more inappropriate than a completely different bass sound jumping in for the occasional bar? I refuse to believe Al Cisneros has ever played a wrong note in his life, and especially in Om songs that have on average 3 notes per riff, so I can only assume it must have been someone shouting slanderous comments through the bass takes or something along those lines. I suppose we'll have to wait till the 50th anniversary COMPLETE CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS SESSIONS box-set to know for sure.
These are better but you can cut the weird references to the reader/listener and to your fingers. The focus of the review should generally remain on the music.
But anyway, everyone should be familiar with the formalities of Bhima's Theme by now and if you aren't by now then honestly, go fuck an emu because you just aren't even trying.
Cut.
Al's vocal is studio-quality and a damn good take to be honest, the high voice in the quiet part is much less strained at pained as on the PILGRIMAGE version, so this makes for a surprisingly chilled middle-eighty before A&C suddenly bludgeon their way back into the song's heavy section at full throttle and with frankly ridiculous force, up there with the most ten-tonne tremendous moments in Om's catalogue. But enough with the pleasantries, the next part of this song is the final curtain.
Last sentence is just throat clearing.
HEY HEY WE'RE THE OMKEYS
I feel a bit mean narrating the events from here on in, as it might spoil the fun for anyone who hasn't heard yet. And let's be honest, most people who have heard it won't have failed to notice the absolute molten brain damage displayed on the end of this track. But it's also true that within the monstrous track durations, maddening repetition and deadpan delivery, it can be easy to sometimes mistake spectacular moments for amateurish drivel. But there is nothing of the sort on Om records and this is a moment that deserves everyone's full attention. Al sounds quite unwell.
A little bloated, but still fairly descriptive.
Twenty-odd years of paring down the already mongotoid basslines and vocal melodies, churning over and over, ever closer to the sweet spot, deeper and deeper into it's own riff-tail Cisneros chewed, finally brought to this point, when all he could do was throw back his head slack-jawed and mouth agape and wail "OHHHHHHHH-OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-OHHHHHHHH" in not-quite-unison with his bass riff for no particular reason, for no particular duration even, just until his lungs are empty. Then another gulp of air and "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-OHHHHHHH-OHHHHHHHHHHH" once again until he's exhausted completely and the bass is left hanging, feeding-back and also wailing to itself, free of the will of Cisneros or anyone in the universe, nothing left on his side of the stage as Hakius feels his partner give way and bursts into a higher tempo in a last-dash race to the Maker.
Typo with mongoloid, which is also another juvenile style choice, but that's your call.
AL BE MISSING YOU
Remember our Romantic Novel metaphor? Hakius and his cymbal bell? Well it's amazing and totally fitting that the last thing you hear on this record is Chris Hakius alone with him drum kit, pounding away carefree, as the engineer reluctantly pulls the fader down on the drummer's genuinely unique recording career. It's the sound of Chris and the bell (or "belle"? OH FUCK, METAPHOR OVERLOAD!!!) of his cymbal running away together, hand in hand, in perfect love, happily ever after, over the horizon and into silence.
I like to think that that's where he is now, now free of the need to be free, free of the need for the magic of Om and the wild mung-ride of Om's music. Maybe he and the cymbal of his bell have settled down somewhere, a farmhouse maybe, a chateaux, a wheelie bin, I dunno, their own little corner of the world anyway, and raised their own little family of cymbal-children. And I like to think that maybe, the eldest, most clear-eyed, contented bell-child of all, they named Al.
I salute you Chris Hakius, wherever you are.
You are beating a dead horse with the cymbal bell joke. You could have more effectively concluded this with just "Remember our Romantic Novel metaphor? Well it's amazing and totally fitting that the last thing you hear on this record is Chris Hakius alone with him drum kit, pounding away carefree, as the engineer reluctantly pulls the fader down on the drummer's genuinely unique recording career."
¹ I know that chicks dig Om too, but let’s be honest the ratio must be something like 1:50 in chicks:man stakes. So for readable compromise it’s gonnae be “man” for here just now, but prove me wrong, honeys!!!
This is super irrelevant and I'm compelled to add that the prove me wrong honeys thing is beyond cringey.