Jose el Retardo

​Before getting into the release of the first Van Halen album to include David Lee Roth in 28 years it’s necessary to bemoan the current state of modern music.

Finding myself desiring to discover a new song or band, ​​I recently looked up the lamentable website Pitchfork. Big mistake. For any fan of the vast genre labeled “rock” music, there is nothing to find on Dickfork but a blasted no-mans land of tired, atmospheric, synth-pad-laden, low-key forgettable-ness. CLICK HERE​ if you want to know what I’m talking about. Not songs precisely – more audio created with the sole intent of being background fodder for films or advertisements – this music truly speaks to the current state of…well, of everything cultural. There’s nothing wrong with this on the surface. Ads need soundtracks, and most documentaries could use the helping hand. But even commercials feel better when the backing track isn’t trying to be in the background, otherwise, it’s only contributing to the lack of substance it’s being employed to battle.

And it wasn’t just a single work, mind you, it was one sad, flat arrangement after another.

The other trend one finds all too often is the grating, monochromatic offerings by the generic parade of faux hard-rock bands populated by disingenuous 30-somethings bitterly complaining about dad’s rules and how much homework totally freaking blows. Devoid of all personality, the fast-paced, machine-punched, metal chords are juxtaposed with flat melodies sung with anemic vocals bemoaning life’s most trivial issues. It all started with Eve 6 and it’s only gone downhill from there. How I hate these bands.

It is with this backdrop in place that one should view my enthusiasm regarding the news that Van Halen created a new record with David Lee Roth. It’s not about nostalgia (though it is). It’s about a never ending ebb and flow of music and time and trends and preferences and lots of other things too dull to mention. It’s about huge personalities and virtuoso talents vying for space within the same song. It’s about the production of work that is striving to capture my attention, as opposed to not getting in the way of whatever else I’m doing. As David Lee Roth so aptly says himself on the new track “The Trouble With Never,” “When you turn your stereo on, does it return the favor?”

I said it right here on this site several years ago (click here to read): David Lee Roth drives Eddie Van Halen to live up to his full potential. Sammy Hagar – fun-loving, tequila-guzzling, rodeo clown that he is – only brought out the self-indulgent pop dictator from a mad genius that was already producing a stupefying amount of pop-rock. Love him or hate him, we need David Lee Roth. Only such a gargantuan ego could reign in Eddie Van Halen and remind him what he was placed on earth to do: rock our balls into the ground and leave them there for dead.

In this vein, A Different Kind of Truth does something amazing. After the initial listen (and yes, you will need to listen to this record more than once), you realize that all the years between 1985 and 2012 have simply vanished. Poof. I don’t mean to say that you’re going to look down at yourself and be shocked to find that you’re wearing parachute pants; it’s more of a time machine effect. All of the years happened, but you skipped them; everything about the old Van Halen is there, but it’s today and these songs are new (relatively…yes I know some had their beginnings back in 1979, but I don’t give a shit and neither should you). It’s modern and throw-back at the same time.

Start with the song writing: face-melting hard rock (“Somebody Get Me A Doctor,” meet “Bullethead”), as well as near-perfect pop melodies (“Feel Your Love Tonight,” meet “Blood And Fire”), that somehow avoid feeling like the members of the band are all grown up now, sucked dry of hope and desire. You know what I’m talking about. Like when Pearl Jam wrapped themselves up in a cocoon and came out Neil Young, or the adult-contemporary fever that tragically struck REM in their prime. No, the David Lee Roth version of Van Halen still sounds like the awesome bunch of assholes we used to know, with updated shirts and too much audio compression.

The real story here lies in the abilities of the musicians, the easiest of which to talk about is Alex Van Halen. The guy remains one of the most under-rated drummers in rock music, adding texture, backbone, and depth to two of the flashiest front men in rock history. But let me not be too generic; Alex Van Halen has one of the most recognizable (and therefore emulated; I’m looking at you, Brad Wilk) sounds in drumming history, and it remains so here. And he’s modest: almost generic when he needs to be, and then unleashes some crazy-ass fill that makes you all like, damn, that fill was crazy. The track to listen to on A Different Kind of Truth is “China Town.” Alex rips that shit up the same way he did on “Hot For Teacher.” And on “As Is,” his tribal offerings and double kick offset the thick, menacing guitar in a way only Alex can do.

Which leads me to the other half of the rhythm section, and so, like, holy shit: Wolfgang Van-Fucking-Halen. Right now, the dumbest thing I could say is: where did this kid come from? Obviously, he was shot from Eddie’s dick 20 years ago, and in hindsight, we should have seen this coming. But I, for one, was too wrapped up in bemoaning the loss of Michael Anthony and his big, dumb, Jack Daniels bass to think about the implications. As a fan, I thought it was strikingly short-sighted of the band to think I could move past Michael Anthony and accept such blatant nepotism so easily. In reality, however, this is Eddie Van Halen’s son, and he plays the bass like…well, like Eddie would. Which is to say, this kid is badass, and to hear his lines constantly intermingling with his old man’s guitar work makes for so many interesting moments that it is utterly pointless to try and list them. Just buy the damn record and listen. It hits you immediately. Michael is good, Wolfgang is better.

And so what about Michael Anthony’s goofy, toothy grin? Eh, who cares. Go look up Chicken Scratch, or whatever the fuck his new band is called (formed with Sammy and Chad Smith), and get your fill over there. Aside from that, Michael provided the distinct backing vocal, but Wolfgang comes close enough. Michael is chubby, and Wolfgang is chubby. All boxes checked.

This leaves us with David and Eddie, inexorably tied together in time and space, a yin and yang of hard rock, locked forever in a marriage of love and anger. You would be tempted to feel sorry for them if they weren’t such certified assholes. But like I mentioned earlier, they need each other in order to remain relevant. Without Eddie, David dissolves into a parody of himself, a randy night club singer who’s a little too smart for his own good, an aging jackal, all-knowing smiles and drollery. With Eddie, he turns into something else. His quips are given weight, darkness, and Eddie’s progressions give Dave something to wrap a melody around, which he does with relish. Dave becomes elevated. To hell with the recent Spin magazine review, where author Steve Kandell beats up on Diamond Dave, nearly pinning on him all failings of the new album. Come on, the guy is a whopping 57 years old, and he sounds like a man…well, not half his age, but at least two-thirds his age. Ironically, this might be due to his baritone vocals, for which he has been unfairly maligned in the past; his “lack of range” responsible for holding back the brothers. That’s pure bullshit. Nobody ever said that crap about Ed Vedder or Jim Morrison. Tenors and sopranists might rule the world of rock frontmen, but their voices fade quickly, leaving fans feeling awkward and conflicted whenever a band schedules a reunion tour. Diamond Dave is still there for you. Kandell accuses Roth of sounding like a 2 AM karaoke version of himself. The man must be on pills. When I hear “Blood and Fire” it seems Dave has never sounded better, and his melodies can be so catchy they hurt.

With Diamond Dave by his side, Eddie turns back into the cosmic alien of pure light he was in his youth. So technically adept as to be a fucking savant, Eddie has always been able to balance this insane photographic muscle memory with an extraordinary expressive ability. Such an extension of himself is the guitar that his music becomes full of hundreds of small moments, distinct and unique. I’m not just talking about crazy speed and dizzying hammer-ons. Listen to “Big River,” and hear what Eddie does to a relatively simple chord progression. It becomes a living thing, it breathes, and it, along with several other songs on the record, hits an emotional place near longing, regret, memory, and elation. This, more than anything, is what has been missing from the moron lists of Pitchfork. And this is the kind of thing that The Brothers (and now son) Van Halen achieved far too seldom with Hagar. Somehow Dave squeezes brilliance from Edward. We should love him if only for that.

Are there misses? Well, Jesus, of course. Now that 15 tracks is the norm, what record doesn’t have misses these days? I could take or leave “Outta Space,” and “Stay Frosty” is a far too literal remake of “Ice Cream Man” to do anybody any real good. But hey, after a few listens, even “Tattoo” sounds pretty fucking good to me. It demolishes anything the embarrassing fools in Linkin Park have ever recorded. Remember the jackasses, Lit? Maybe just barely? Now you don’t have to.