"Two years ago, Page Hamilton-- singer, guitarist and founder of the proto-metal outfit Helmet-- was driving around Los Angeles with the radio on. The jock on duty had just debuted the hotly anticipated new track from some xFC-metal millionaires."
And, as you might have guessed, the story (and this promo pitch) ends in medias res, with Helmet, unwavering bastion of all things Hard and Rock, emerging from the dry ice mists of obscurity and obsolescence to rescue the tired, huddled, headbanging masses from the ever-growing throng of bare-ass emperors. Glory be unto they who bring forth The Rock for their people beset by The Rot, were that it be The Rock they actually bring forth.
If Helmet had one thing going for them in their prime, it was a monochromatic discipline. They gave fans a gussied-up version of the working class scree proffered by Big Black and other Albini disciples. With Helmet, the guitars cut like lasers, not pavement saws. The rhythms were efficient and martial, not frenetically robotic. And while Albini's words were flecked with coal dust and offal and the scarring of 12-hour work days, Hamilton barked and yelped like a guy earning union wages with full benefits and 401K matching. Helmet did lack a certain visceral passion, but they were precise and exacting and brutal and-- when all the metaphors are bagged and tagged-- Helmet did indeed rock. It's safe to say that Helmet's million-dollar Interscope contract (inked circa 1991) paved the way for all the xFC-metal millionaires Hamilton now finds himself both befriending and opposing.
Instead of reinventing the wheel (or perhaps the tank tread), Helmet attempt to diversify their portfolio, offering dynamics and approachable melodies and other types of listener-friendly capitulations one wouldn't associate with the folks that dropped "Meantime" and "Unsung". The group's online bio claims Page & Co. (old Helmeteer Chris Traynor and new guys John Tempesta and Frank Bello-- veterans of Testament and Anthrax, respectively) didn't set out to make Meantime, Part II with this new record; rather, they made Wilma, a less varied version of their confounding post-breakthrough album Betty.
Therein lies part of the problem. As I said, Helmet's strength is their lack of diversity-- the group is a lumbering, slow-footed, imposing heavyweight, and it succeeds by beating opponents into submission. It's awkward to witness such a gloriously thuggish monster vainly attempt the rope-a-dope. Part of this pop-centric bait-and-switch is shifting the focus away from the guitars and hi-hats towards the vocals. Unfortunately, the "singing" on Size Matters happens in two modes: the hoarse bark and the nasal sneer. Both of these styles are evident on the album's first track, "Smart", and neither do the group any favors. Page Hamilton as R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket (authoritative, stern) = yes, sir! Page Hamilton as R. Lee Ermey in Saving Silverman (emotive, awkward) = unfit for command.
Worse yet, Helmet's clipped monosyllabic lyrical M.O. (consistent throughout their recorded output) doesn't jibe with this slight stylistic shift. It's safe to say that lyrics were never Helmet's strong suit ("I'd like to see you/ In two pieces/ Won't be walking/ Barely breathing/ I'd like to see you/ At my door/ We're together/ Like before"), but it's not going to do any good to draw attention to them.
Granted, there's enough wicked fretwork and cool guitar noise throughout this record to both recall past glories and satiate those in need of a modern rock fix. Just be warned that there are some hoops to jump through. Also be wary if you believe the hype and are hoping that Helmet have returned to save us from the upstarts and charlatans who pass themselves off as metal. Indeed, Helmet have met the enemy-- and, unfortunately, the enemy is Helmet.
