Slice of Life

“…alone again in the darkness, tonight I’m gonna end it all…”

Just about every extremely early metal effort survives in some sort of man-made shadow. To some, this shadow is doubt. To others, it’s hesitation. The difference lies within the point of view.

The first and probably most common is cast by the listener - the doubt that anything released in ‘79/’80 that’s described as metal will be anything more than hard rock that'll be lucky to match the so-called fury of the well-known questionables: Michael Schenker Group, Blackfoot, UFO, Triumph, Y&T, April Wine…yeah, you know that list.

The second originates from the band itself - the hesitation to amp up its likely prescribed hard rock formula of the day at the risk of derailing mainstream acceptance and success, which more often comes with an actual reduction in aggression.

Oftentimes it’s an overlapping of both, but with this particular package the culpable shadow is almost transparent.

While surprisingly not from England, California’s (L.A.) Beowulf may startle a few with their heavier-than-anticipated thrum that apparently paid some attention to the happenings across the pond. I say surprisingly ‘cos according to at least eight of these ten tracks, the new wave of Britain that washed ashore in America, scant as it was in ’80, wasn’t lost on this quintet, who were, I dunno, out canoeing when it floated in like wayward oil and were bright enough to read between the pretty black swirls. What they got for their trouble squeezes somewhere between same year White Spirit, Axis (UK), Def Leppard, Diamond Head, Fist (UK), Samson, Mistreater and, of course, a ‘lil Maiden. These aren’t bad neighbors to have.

As flashed in “Ain’t Gettin’ Any Younger” and Maiden-glazed “Getaway”, cool dual solos aren’t uncommon, nor are they alternatively overused, and “London Woman” is proof a double-time gallop isn’t either. The grand title track sways in less than half a minute of acoustics before a fluent tide of power chords busts it open to announce its top track nomination. A normal time, though still lively horseman rides like a “Social Champ”, barely cuts around Keith Delaney’s tidy drum solo, then gains enough momentum to clear the unexpected melancholy center of “Thanks to You”, a tune structured similarly to Maiden’s “Charlotte the Harlot”. A brief, curb-jumping instrumental, “1-2 a Number”, primes multi-faceted closer “The Hounds of Tindalos”, a howler of John Croswell’s only ear-piercers on the record.

Speaking of Croswell, with a delivery that’s confident, uncluttered and relatively cool, his is an easy-to-palate tenor that lounges somewhere between Blitzkrieg’s Brian Ross, Mistreater’s Curt Luedy and maybe Satanic Rites’ Daz Bingham, and only at the tail of the album does he and his mustache swagger forth to whip us with some unforeseen cloud-slicers.

Still, Slice of Life’s earthy and workmanlike baseline, installed as early as ’76, gives off that slight mildewy odor of influence; it’s an all-too-common tang that accompanies releases of this time period that, despite whatever metalness has been (often accidentally) foraged, still cling to the last batch of rock songs their creators happened to hear prior to writing. Luckily nose-worthy only sporadically during these tracks, it is however stronger when closer to standing still, like when soft-spoken pedestrian “Hideaway” takes almost six minutes to meander by. Meanwhile “Fantasy”, to my ear reminiscent of Dust’s “I’ve Been Thinkin’” minus the slide guitar, doesn’t quite waft 1972’s denture cream in its soft stroll, but it’s not far off.

Since no earlier recordings of the band seem to exist except for possibly non-lp “Take Me”, which apparently has yet to escape from ’80’s WTUE Homegrown compilation, it’s almost impossible to know what Beowulf sounded like before this one n’ only, if only for comparison. The absence of keyboards as well as any record of such a position existing paints less of a commercially-colored portrait bands like Runner, Axe (US-TX) and New England knowingly stood still for, and its detective stuff like this that may help explain some of the group’s eagerness to absorb the great new sound slow-boating across the Atlantic, a sound many new and/or existing heavy rock acts at the time readily (or were ready to) dismiss(ed).

Now to stun ya just a little, Slice of Life is fresher and more relatable than the day’s Cirith Ungol, heavier than the weightiest Praying Mantis, Witchfynde, ’80 Holocaust (UK) and ‘70s Tygers of Pan Tang, and its archetypal dodgy indie sleeve (which repeats ‘high energy rock’ across its span, further flaunting that hardly anyone could find the book back then, let alone be on same page when it came to styles) is worth the price of admission.

As far as shadows go, it’s safe to say Beowulf didn’t hesitate as they hollered the small print on the wall loud n’ clear, so any uncertainty that troubles Slice of Life down the pike can be blamed on listener doubt.