Goatsnake, Trampled Under Hoof (2004)

There’s a lot to like about Goatsnake‘s 2004 EP, Trampled Under Hoof, right? It’s not like the idea of, ‘Hey, here are some Goatsnake tracks’ needs much salesmanship. They do a lot of that work themselves just by being what they are. But this release particularly, from its goatly Stephen O’Malley cover art to its release on Southern Lord to the fact that the CD refers to the earlier-recorded covers of Saint Vitus and Black Oak Arkansas as a “goat bonus” to the fact that founding the founding duo of vocalist Pete Stahl and guitarist Greg Anderson brought in Scott Reeder to play bass, holds a multifaceted appeal. One thing I’ve always particularly enjoyed about it is that it essentially tells the story of the band twice; once with its three original songs, and then again with the two aforementioned cover tracks. As much as one thinks of massive, roll-grooving bluesy riffs, tonal density and soul when one thinks of Goatsnake, efficiency rarely comes to mind as a central notion of how they functioned, yet Trampled Under Hoof — produced as ever by Matthias Schneeberger — is in and out in 31 minutes, and more than two of those are silence after the end of “Junior’s Jam,” so it turns out to be pretty neatly packed.

What I mean by telling the same story twice though is that if you listen to the three goat-riginals (just trying to keep the theme) in “Portraits of Pain,” “Black Cat Bone” and “Junior’s Jam,” they encapsulate an awful lot about what made the band’s two full-lengths, 1999’s I (discussed here) and 2000’s Flower of Disease (discussed here), so righteous. They take the stoner ideology of the Man’s Ruin Records era in which they arrived and were released as part of, and crush it into a mid-paced nod on the seven-minute opener, with Anderson‘s tone molasses-thick and Stahl‘s voice molasses-sweet atop the crashing cymbal work of drummer John-Robert Conners, then also of Cave In. Of course, having the bassist role previously held by Guy Pinhas (also Acid King, ex-The Obsessed) and G. Stuart Dahlquist (ex-Burning Witch) filled by Reeder, already worthy of legend at that point with stints in The Obsessed, Kyuss and Unida to his credit — he was pretty fresh off the latter when he got hooked up with Anderson and Stahl, if they weren’t still going — wasn’t going to hurt when it came to tone or performance either, but “Portraits of Pain” is pure Goatsnake as it lumbers and rumbles to its finish ahead of the 2:53 “Black Cat Bone,” a faster boogie blues no less for density than the track before it, but moving in a way that still shows the rock side of what Goatsnake were able to bring to bear in their sound. In other words, it wasn’t just all about nod — they could also let loose and fire off a track with a real sense of propulsion behind it.

This notion hits with immediate contrast in “Junior’s Jam,” which seems to start off referencing Black Sabbath‘s “The Wizard” with its echoing harmonica before unfurling its suitably Iommic doomly plod. Stahl‘s harmonica returns later to draw emphasis to a bluesy feel, but only after “Junior’s Jam” shifts fluidly from its slow start to a more uptempo hook, drawing from some of the same swinging impulse as “Black Cat Bone” before it, but even catchier as Stahl repeats the line “Which way world” and then shoves into a secondary chorus as a bridge before rounding out with one more hook and that harmonica return, which comes back and ends the song on a note of humor, sounding almost like a chicken as a dog barks in the background and the band laughs in the studio and someone says, “I like it.” One wonders if that’s the session that took place at Reeder‘s The Sanctuary studio, as the bassist also had a hand in recording vocals and mixing, but it’s hard to know either way without asking, and frankly, that seems like kind of a random and/or creepy question to drop on the band some 13 years after the fact. In either case, that track is the final original inclusion on Trampled Under Hoof and only paints a more complete portrait of the cross-subgenre appeal of the band between its doom, classic boogie, offbeat weirdness and thorough, defining sense of heft.

All of which show up again as Goatsnake take on Saint Vitus and Black Oak Arkansas in immediate succession. The covers, originally recorded in 1999, seem like a purposeful pairing for what they say about the band’s influences in classic doom and heavy rock, and the post-Sabbath edge Goatsnake give to “Burial at Sea,” with the whispers in the verse and Stahl‘s drawling lines, makes it all the more fitting, where the sample that starts out “Hot Rod,” talking about guitarist Shawn Lane joining the Southern rock outfit and telling a story that basically ends in a threat of a beating from some cops, pulls the listener all the more into Goatsnake‘s world. After that spoken immersion, the song itself is almost an afterthought, but like “Black Cat Bone,” “Junior’s Jam,” or indeed the post-tempo change charge of “Burial at Sea,” it highlights the rocking aspects of Goatsnake with clarity in its purpose and a bizarre vibe that, once again, efficiently captures a crucial piece of what made Goatsnake such a special band.

Aside from the I + Dog Days comp/reissue that Southern Lord also put out in 2004, Trampled Under Hoof was the last Goatsnake offering to be issued until the band’s 2015 Black Age Blues (review here) comeback full-length, manifested some five years after their reunion officially started and perhaps too late to give them the momentum they seemed to desire from it. I’ll still happily maintain that record was easily among 2015’s best, however, and of a quality easily worth consideration among its two predecessors in Goatsnake‘s LP catalog as well as Trampled Under Hoof before it. Just a killer, killer album. Strange to think of Goatsnake, who’ve influenced heavy rock bands across the planet for going on two decades, as winding up putting out an LP that could be thought of as underrated, but there you go. Somehow it’s just strange enough to be fitting for them. Nonetheless, like everything they’ve ever done, it was a beast. “Jimi’s Gone,” man. “House of the Moon.” “Grandpa Jones.” So right on. Guess I know what I’m putting on next.

Hope you enjoy Trampled Under Hoof. Thanks for reading.

—

I’ve been asked a couple times in the last 24-36 hours and nope, no baby yet. The Patient Mrs. is living up to her name, and it would seem The Pecan is exercising some free will early in setting his own schedule. Yesterday was my birthday (I’m 36 years old: wa. fucking. hoo.), so we kind of had our fingers crossed he’d show up and give me an excuse never to have to “celebrate” that again — which, rest assured, I’d relish, because I fucking hate my birthday; like I need a reminder of how utterly useless I’ve been over the passage of time — but no dice. Dude can make an appearance at his leisure at this point and it’s fine by me, though for the general morale level in the house, sooner might be better.

We’ll get there.

That’s pretty much what it’s been this week. Writing and waiting. Texts from my family: “Any update?” “Yeah, she had the kid on the can like those reality shows where the ladies don’t know they’re pregnant. We were gonna put it on Facebook, just haven’t gotten there yet — you know, placenta and all.”

That’s a lot to put in a text, so I’ve just gone with “nope.” Keep it simple.

Here’s what’s in store for next week, subject to change blah blah:

SOMETIME NEXT WEEK: Baby.
Mon.: Tuber review, video premiere for Weed Priest.
Tue.: Oresund Space Collective review, video premiere for Doomstress.
Wed.: Mirror Queen album stream/review.
Thu.: Monolord review.
Fri.: Cities of Mars review.

Built in some flex toward the end of the week there for obvious reasons, but that’s what I’m rolling with for now. We’ll see how it works out.

In the meantime, the plan for this weekend is to read, spend as little time as possible on social media, buy some coffee, watch the Yankees hopefully make their way into the World Series to face the Dodgers — I think they can take them; Kershaw’s due to choke — and try to get my head around to not being such a miserable bastard before this baby comes so that the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes isn’t my stupid, ugly, old, frowning useless fucking face.

Ugh. Obviously I have some work to do. Also, at the risk of telling you way more than I’m comfortable with about myself and how I operate, I haven’t eaten anything not made of protein powder in like two days and I’m not sure when I’m going to let myself do so again. While we’re being honest: Fuck everything. I hope my fucking organs shut down one by one. I want to be obliterated. So far it’s not working.

Piss piss piss.

Have a great and safe weekend. I’m gonna go read Star Trek books, listen to more Goatsnake, not eat and wait for baseball to come on. Because life.

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