When push came to shove, few metal fans ever had any doubts that
Max Cavalera
would do just fine on his own after his acrimonious split from Brazilian death metal heroes
Sepultura
. In fact, the guitarist/singer/songwriter quickly proved himself the better of the two parties with the release of his new band
Soulfly
's eponymous debut in 1998. But, whereas that record maintained a rather linear progression from
's often underappreciated, at times groundbreaking work, clearly the singer's more adventurous work was now behind him.
Primitive
,
's sophomore "solo" project, introduces the listener to yet another slew of "new" musical styles, experiments, and collaborations. Frustratingly, where albums like
Arise
and especially
Roots
broke through standard metal cliches by reinventing its aesthetic with often startling results, a record like
just seems like a haphazardly thrown-together melange of styles, with few cuts really managing to inspire or even gel. In fact, most of
Cavalera
's ideas sound half-baked here -- teetering on the cusp of something great, but never fulfilling that promise. With its mishmash of moods and irreverent sense of experimentation,
teases but mostly plays it safe with its facile over-the-top posturing. Maybe it's the fact that
's lyrics have become something of an embarrassing mess these days, with the singer (and we use the term loosely) abusing every overwrought rap-metal cliche imaginable. Ignore the words (and let's not kid ourselves, a lot of folks will) and one is left with a solid, somewhat predictable metal release, which almost redeems itself thanks in part to a punchy production courtesy of
Korn
and
Alice in Chains
producer/engineer
Toby Wright
. As for the individual tracks themselves, opener
"Back to the Primitive"
is perfectly interchangeable with any other of the opening cuts on all the previous
albums (something
Metallica
once mastered to perfection back in its heyday). However, at the end of the day,
is no
Hetfield
"Fight Fire With Fire"
or
"Battery"
for that matter.
then succumbs to a cluster-f**k of guest appearances including
Slayer
's
Tom Araya
the Deftones
'
Chino Moreno
, and the entire
Mulambo Tribe
(huh?) from Brazil -- yielding as many "ooh, that was neat" reactions as it does "what the hell was that for?" confusion. Of the aforementioned lyrical calamities, the otherwise satisfying
"Bring It"
"Jump the F**k Up"
are especially laughable for their sheer stupidity.
"Mulambo,"
as one has come to expect, is the album's meaningless, supposed tribal chant (and no, it doesn't mean anything in Portuguese either), while
"In Memory of..."
is simply a blatantly shortsighted attempt at hip-hop. Two offerings, however, are pretty much beyond reproach: there's
"Son Song,"
a surprising lucid collaboration with
Sean Lennon
that succeeds because it is so downright catchy and off the wall, and the closing
"Flyhigh,"
truly surprising with its female lead co-vocal and bludgeoning detuned guitar groove. Ultimately,
finds
in a reluctant holding pattern, and begs the question: "Where do we go from here?" ~ John Franck & Ed Rivadvia