Now that every pussy has a tattoo and Disneyland fan clubs are sporting biker vests, how is Zakk Wylde supposed to display his bad Otherness? If he forsook his frayed denim & black leather, he'd have no badge of evil left to jettison. He's never been a tat freak. He already stopped drinking. He doesn't hang with Satan. He's worn kilts, but maybe he should go back to the pink chiffon he used to clown around in. He would still slay mercilessly on guitar.
Zakk has kept busy with semiacoustic shows, videos and Zakk Sabbath, and now he's back with Ozzy, so it doesn't seem like nearly four years since his last Black Label Society album, "Catacombs of the Black Vatican." Looking back on my review of that one, I feel as if I could change the title and plug in the same words -- the riffy, heavy, shreddy, Southern-rock BLS formula has changed little over two decades, and less since '14. It's lovable anyway, of course.
But any Valentine's dinner should start with whine, so here's a taste. The riffs are mostly sleepwalkers, although Zakk does throw an extra beat into alternate recapitulations on the plodding opener, "Trampled Down Below." The songs could use more twists like the Spanish intro on "A Love Unreal" and the key-change solos on "The Betrayal" -- you know a chorus is coming before Zakk does. Though bassist John DeServio plucks a faultless tone and drummer Jeff Fabb sloshes with rock essence, they never charge Zakk's hill, and a bit o' challenge could encourage the boss to flash back on the fusionistic pushnpull (Al Di Meola with Lenny White, John McLaughlin with Tony Williams) that jazzed him as a tyro chopsman.
Yeah, I ain't forgetting this is rock, which Zakk delivers like a dumptruck, adding to the de rigueur Sabbath tributes with hefty helpin's of primordial gods such as Jimi, Jimmy and Neil. For fun times, Zakk turns to his solos -- bold rampages around the fretboard exploiting every possible combination of speed, melody and emotion.
Zakk's use of wah-wah reinforces the Crybaby mood of "Grimmest Hits," as this quintessential rock comedian sinks into a depressive ditch so deep that you almost wish his soulful voice were not so well matched to words about ashes that fall and waters that pull you under. The most memorable song, the mournful waltz "The Day That Heaven Had Gone Away," is also the most irritating, while the title of the far better finale -- with its jangling guitar, funereal organ and lonely bottleneck solo -- rings all too true: "Nothing Left To Say."
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Black Label Society plays the Fonda on Tuesday, February 27.