Now, this is some beautiful music. After a five-year hiatus, COC bounds to the top of the heap like a rotweiler that just chewed through it's leash. Woody and the boys have got the hy-pro glow for sure this outing, and with news of Dime's death still echoing in our ears, this slab couldn't have come at a better time.

Only a handful of bands receive the solemn reverence that COC enjoys around the 'dog site. Besides the obvious fact that they succeeded in re-inventing themselves, traversing both excellent hardcore punk and kickin' Sabbathy groove in the same lifetime, COC delivered some of the greatest heavy rock records of the 90s at a time when good 'ol American mettle was just about dying on the operating table. Man, I paid for a lot of imports back in 1994-95, largely due to the fact that PANTERA clones and lame ass death metal seemed to be the order of the day domestically. Thank goodness for "Deliverance" and eventually "Wiseblood" serving up earfuls of Keenan's vocal charm and southern roar along with those delectable guitar harmonies. After riding out these couple of discs that seemingly marked the band's creative peak, they went for a slight change of pace, serving up 2000's curious "America's Volume Dealer". Instead of the steel-plated disc we'd expect from the COC boys, perhaps delivered to us over a backwoods truck parts counter by a guy named Butch, AVD seemed artsy and tame. A plethora of strange acoustic songs, and almost-too-hummable choruses had me wondering just how corrupting that late 90s tour with METALLICA had been.

If you had any doubts whatsoever regarding COC’s musical direction, “In the Arms of God” will wipe them away before you get through the second track. In classic COC fashion, the riffs will knock you into the dust, kicking you around violently. The dueling leads and sweet harmonies will pick you up and dust you off. Observe if you will the sly, slithery basslines of “Dirty Hands Empty Pockets”. Keenan oozes his venomous banter between cannon bursts of glorious guitar mayhem, sounding like a cross between Billy Gibbons and the Grinch. “Infinite War” stirs up husky Woody Weatherman vocals, reckless stompbox pandemonium, and a groove reminiscent of past COC rockers like “The Door”. But the real capper for the whole affair, and the real exhibit of the band’s power and passion is the closing pair of tracks, “Crown of Thorns” and “Into The Arm of God”. A bizarre southwestern-style acoustic intro pulls us through the door, and harkens us along a black burning trail to the powder keg of the title track. Once found, the listener is greeted with a menacing fireball of Weatherman’s muscular crunch, shrieks of hypocrisy, punishment for self-righteousness, poisonous disdain for pretentiousness, and a percussive leather glove sock-to-the-jaw courtesy of guest drummer Stanton Moore. This is no longer mimicry of “Ace of Spades”, no longer a regurgitation of “Just Got Paid” or “Snowblind”. This is a monster truck musical statement from one of the most important heavy bands around today.

- Marchman

OFFICIAL SITE: www.coc.com

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