OF DJENT

What the hell is "djent"?  I wonder because I seem to have been listening to it for some time now without actually knowing that I'm listening to it.  I'd never even heard of this elusive sub-genre until two days ago, and yet it seems to have already wormed its way covertly into my music collection, illicitly invading my ears on a weekly basis without my knowledge.  That's assuming it actually exists, of course.

When I first encountered the term in an online album review, I assumed it was a typo.  After it had cropped up in several reviews, I decided to investigate further, and discovered a whole new musical style which I had hitherto never known existed.  Except that it wasn't a new musical style.  The bands and the sound have been around for years; the only thing that was new was the name.  The term "djent" was apparently coined by one of the guitarists from Swedish band Meshuggah, and is an onomatopoeic expression for the sound of a palm-muted, distorted guitar.  While there are an awful lot of metal bands who utilise palm-muted guitar playing, it seems the term has come to refer to a particular group of them.  Trouble is, the unique sonic quirks which mark these bands out as part of the "djent" scene (highly complex riffs and song structures, polyrhythmic drumming and a mixture of melody and heaviness) are already considered hallmarks of such musical styles as technical metal, post-hardcore, progressive metal and math-rock, the overlap between which is such that it sometimes hardly seems worth differentiating.  Already blessed with such an overabundance of genre tags, it seems pointless to add yet another to the same group of artists.  What, then, is the point?

The rise of "djent" is just the latest chapter in the ongoing saga of the human obsession with dividing and categorising music into as many conveniently named sub-genres as possible.  "Djent" is not what I'm listening to when I put on a band like Protest The Hero or Between The Buried And Me, because "djent" is not really music, no more than, say, "rock" and "jazz" are.  They are words that we use to attempt to crudely describe the sounds we're hearing, and create neat little groupings of sonic experience.  Convenient, I suppose, but it's far too easy to get caught up in the application of such meaningless labels.  Using words to describe music can often be incredibly difficult; they're two completely distinct forms of communication.  Why we'd also want to go throwing redundant terms like "djent" into the mix is beyond me.

Plus, it sounds ridiculous.

OF QUEUES AND CURES by National Health

A slightly sinister cover, a peculiar title and a band name you've never heard of.  Yes, you've guessed it; this is a prog rock record.  But all is not quite as it appears.  Released in 1978, the year after the great punk boom and firmly in the midst of prog's wilderness years, Of Queues And Cures was probably the last great album to come out of the Canterbury scene, one of the more artistically successful subgroups of 1970s progressive rock.  Like many other Canterbury bands, National Health weren't actually natives of the town which gave its name to a collective of talented posh boys with a fondness for jazz, but they had a lot in common with their peers musically.  Formed from the ashes of supergroup Hatfield & The North, National Health had a brief but glittering career during which they plowed a furrow equal parts jazz, rock and funk, but always with a quintessentially English twist.  They reached their zenith on this, their second album, and proved that even when so-called progressive rock was at its lowest ebb, it was a style of music which - in the right hands - could still produce stunning results.

The album as a whole is characterised by a strong sense of groove; something which many prog rock groups of the time could rightly be accused of lacking.  The rhythm section of Pip Pyle and John Greaves bubbles away beneath every track, pushing the music forwards but also supporting it.  Keyboard virtuoso Dave Stewart is the most prominently featured instrumentalist, but he never overpowers the sound of the group as a whole.  It's also good to hear him using almost exclusively analogue keyboards at a time when many bands were starting to utilise early digital synthesisers, the sound of which would date painfully fast.  But arguably the breakout star of the record is Phil Miller, a journeyman guitarist best known for his session work throughout the Canterbury scene.  His guitar sound is at once dirtily fuzzy and sweetly smooth, and his playing is technically impressive without ever sacrificing emotional impact.

The track Squarer For Maud is almost a microcosm of the album's sound as a whole.  A creepy melody line on bass and piano leads the track in, joined slowly by Pyle's jazzy cymbal work.  Miller's floating, sustained guitar lines add to the tension, while Stewart piles melody on top of melody with his various keyboards, leading to a dramatic chord progression which acts as a backing for the most emotionally satisfying guitar solo on the album, with Miller wrenching every possible ounce of feeling from his distorted six-string.  As the tension is broken, the track dissolves pleasingly into polyrhythmic jazz, followed by a brief and surreal spoken word section contributed by fellow experimentalist Peter Blegvad.  Stewart hammers out an ostinato with piano chords as the track comes to life once more, supported by another great guitar accompaniment from Miller.  Everything charges to a breakneck climax led by Stewart's organ and Greaves' fuzzed-up bass as the band churns up an almighty groove, leading to an angular, staccato breakdown which closes the piece.  It's a credit to the band's composition and playing that not one of these myriad transitions feels jarring in the slightest.  Elsewhere on the album, the 70s spirit of experimentation is alive and well in the unexpected steel drum work on Collapso, Pip Pyle's vocalised drum solo Phlakhaton, and the intro to the track Dreams Wide Awake, which features Dave Stewart soloing on an electric organ whilst ripping circuit boards out of its side, turning his sustained chords into a hideous squelch.  

The groups of the Canterbury scene were often held in high regard by those outwith the progressive rock movement because of their boundless ability to laugh at themselves.  That whimsical sense of fun is also present on Of Queues And Cures, but it's also tempered by something much darker.  On this album, National Health found the perfect balance of light and shade that many of their peers had been striving to achieve for years.  The tracks collected here never sacrifice melody for complexity, and achieve moments of utter majesty as well as utter madness.  The group is individually and collectively brilliant, and proved without a doubt that a so-called progressive rock band could offer a major contribution to the music of the 20th century, even when no-one was listening.  Of Queues And Cures is one of the great lost masterpieces of the 1970s.