Unbroken

After enduring corrosive synth pop, bludgeoning radio rock, and the imperious misguidance from a slew of record companies, I remain Unbroken. And so does Tokyo Blade, but that much was obvious. You can chalk their 'unbroken-ness' up to glorious Nippon steel being folded one thousand times, or you can point to ringleader Andy Boulton's willingness to update his band more times than Adobe Acrobat. The latest patch notes saw the abrupt exit of Nicolaj Ruhnow, vocalist for the passable yet decidedly geeky Thousand Men Strong, and the subsequent reinstatement of original vocalist Alan Marsh.

Forgive me for not sounding more excited. When I think of Alan Marsh reuniting with Tokyo Blade, I think of Burning Down Paradise, and when I think of Burning Down Paradise, I think of a matador in shiny pink spandex getting gored by a bull in a flannel shirt. That 1995 "glam-grunge" travesty was a karate kick to my already-bruised groin, and yet still I found myself holding onto some faint glimmer of hope that Tokyo Blade had one ace left up their sleeve. "If only the vocals channeled the youthful Di'Anno wails that peppered Midnight Rendezvous", I thought. "And if only Boulton and Wiggins could throw down some hawkish, streetfighting riffs to bring them home" I added, after remembering what Pumphouse was like. I thought Thousand Men Strong was the best I could hope for, but then along came Unbroken.

Much like my time with Riot V's Armor of Light, I quickly lost count of how many easter eggs Unbroken hid for their fans to collect. There are subtle moments like 'Bad Blood's sultry rhythm evoking vague memories of Night of the Blade, and extremely blatant moments like 'My Kind of Heaven', designed from the ground up to copy every DNA strand that formed their masterwork 'If Heaven is Hell'. Add to that the scalpel-sharp cuts like 'Black Water' and 'Stings Like an Open Wound' defined by icy dual guitar leads and minty-fresh hooks, and the impetus behind this entire album is an unrepentant time capsule of their older work. And that makes me a very happy tanuki. Andy Boulton, for the first time ever, actually seems proud of his immortal contributions to the new wave of British heavy metal.

Not only that, but certain tracks manage to be pretty quirky and daring in their 80's recital. The hooks of 'Bullet Made of Stone' are eccentrically timed, with crunchy guitar solos swaggering atop unusual chords with remarkable confidence. Besides some glacially-paced filler like 'Burn Down the Night' slowing things down with a metronome-like obligation, Unbroken feels a lot like Saxon's Call to Arms and Accept's Blood of the Nations; familiar yet alien, with an unmistakable aura of triumph and reinstated vigor throughout the veins of its songwriting. And an unmistakable feeling that every song is too long. While not a cartoonish metal marathon like the last few Accept albums, Unbroken is still a daunting trek that unfortunately dissuades against repeated listens. The pacing ebbs and flows as one would expect, yet individual songs can be guilty of redundancy and brute force repetition that hurts them in the long-run.

Mitigating this is the staggeringly professional production. Unbroken sounds clean enough to cure viruses on, and while you could argue this goes against the ethos of the lumbermill symphony of Tokyo Blade's yore, it's hard to argue against the resultant ear-candy. The listener is actively encouraged to focus on each individual instrument's aspect and weigh it against the next; nothing is overpowering, nothing is overpowered. This is a remarkable accomplishment for any producer, particularly after Thousand Men Strong; an album so muzzled and wimpy that not even the late, great Chris Tsangarides could unearth it.

So three banzai cheers for Tokyo Blade. It took them several decades, but it's my great pleasure to finally induct them in my exclusive club of NWOBHM bands that fell from grace, but climbed back up the ladder with a truly spectacular comeback. And just as a sidenote, that window of opportunity is quickly closing on some of the old guard, so they might want to hurry up and write something memorable. Not naming names. Venom.