One of the most heated and enduring debates in the metal critic “community” is whether older albums reviewed in a more contemporary era should be judged in terms of their position when the album was released versus how they hold up today. This discussion seems to pop up more often in metal’s critical circles than in those of other musical styles, perhaps due to the style’s unusually large community of reviewers, the similarly unusual regularity in which older albums are revisited by younger writers who entered the metal scene after many older albums’ heyday, or even just the genre’s emphasis on the importance of a sort of historical narrative. Metalheads, it seems, purchase older albums which aren’t necessarily still relevant in the strictest sense with a regularity unmatched by those in other genres; or, to be more precise, less intensely involved fans of the style seem to partake in this sort of musical necromancy more frequently than those of other styles, where the resurrection and reexamination of older albums is more often the domain of the cantankerous grognards that inhabit other scenes. To rarefy the idea even further, metalheads seem more infatuated with discovering forgotten, definitively non-canonical albums of old than fans of other styles of music. It’s for some of these reasons or all of them that discussions regarding the relevance of older albums tend to erupt so violently; there tends to be an emotional investment of a deeper degree than you might see in, say, the electronic community.
Fortunately enough for us metal critics, it seems that the decision is often made for us. It’s a rare occasion that an album of old was brilliant then but comes off as a musical failure now, and it’s equally rare that the garbage of old might become an unearthed gem later. There are exceptions to each, of course (Anthrax, I’d say, for the former, and Beherit is certainly a recognizable occupant of the latter category,) but more often than not, shit is shit and gold is gold without much waffling between the two. When it comes to the primary question of the judgment of albums, though, I tend to take the South Park approach: while we can hardly lambaste albums for evidencing the inherent limitations of their era (I’m not going to dock points from “Altars of Madness” for the distinct lack of gravity blasts or slams,) it could be said that the benchmark of truly great art is its ability to transcend its origin and maintain relevance despite the movement of ages. Wagner’s work doesn’t sound dated; nor should any other piece of truly great art. Once in a while, though, even that approach fails me, and I’m confronted by an album that forces me to question that view, tearing me between both my appreciation for metal history and my personal feelings and standards when viewed today. Celtic Frost’s seminal debut “Morbid Tales” is one such release.
Reviewing “Morbid Tales” as an album alone puts one in a similar position as one who would attempt to review one of the original “Star Wars” movies as a film alone: it’s nearly impossible. “Star Wars” has become such an omnipresent part of Western culture, so inescapable and deeply entrenched in cultural consciousness, that one’s personal opinions and experiences with it are rendered sort of inappropriate and bizarre. One doesn’t like or dislike “Star Wars,” really- it simply IS. Celtic Frost occupies a similar place which makes independent appraisal difficult. With “Morbid Tales” (and, to a certain degree, the band’s entire early discography) forming such a pivotal role in the development of metal as a musical style, a judgment of “Morbid Tales” is rather easily interpreted as a judgment of all its descendants as well. If one enjoys extreme metal but doesn’t find Celtic Frost’s work compelling, it’s somewhat challenging to justify. Celtic Frost carries so much historical baggage on its shoulders that one has to tread lightly to prevent misinterpretation.
rafazardly 