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Rating: Brief premise: Buckethead is an author whose output is prolific to say the least, and the pikes, of which this work is a wandering fragment, are an endless series of mini-albums that Carroll began publishing in 2011. Practically one comes out every week and so far they have exceeded 200 records. They are highly dispersive works, often unnecessary: only a few are truly worthy of the level to which Carroll has accustomed us during his vast career. This is precisely the biggest flaw of Buckethead: being too prolific. If he pondered over an album for a couple of years, he might conceive a masterpiece. Although with this one, he came damn close.
Among virtuosic players (of whom I like very few pieces, just one here and there from their respective first albums), the star of Buckethead shines: no guitar hero so far, neither Vai, nor Satriani, nor Malmsteen, has managed to be as eclectic as Buckethead, who traverses various fields, from the violent waves of heavy metal to ambient backwaters, from funk metal to grindcore and trash, from progressive rock to experimental music, from funk to hip hop, up to reggae... Buckethead is the only virtuoso (in the 80s sense) who never tires of experimenting. His style is a strange mix between Marty Friedman, Randy Rhoads, and Dave Murray, although Buckethead manages to vary more, pushing beyond the Pillars of Hercules of wild and frenzied guitar playing.
It is said that art is born from suffering and that it is the only way to escape death: to make oneself immortal through one's work. Could it have been the death of his mother, to whom this album is dedicated, that pushed Brian Patrick Carroll, aka Buckethead, to compose his masterpiece? Yes, because this album is the best Buckethead my eardrums have ever heard resonating inside my skull. It is homogeneous, which for him is quite unusual, given that his albums resemble musical collages in which each puzzle piece doesn't fit with the others; and it is so varied that you often find yourself wondering: is it really still him playing?
An album that is one, unending song—no less than 28 minutes! A requiem for electric guitar from which hammering and devilish solos, granite riffs, and captivating themes unravel like yarn. His notes evaporate into the starry vault and become one with the cosmos; slivers of light pierce the walls of my room when I listen to it. Hailstorms of riffs enter your mind like bullets and solos flow like crystal-clear rivers; shards of martial rhythms that decapitate those who come too close and rise to pierce the troposphere. All seasoned with sophisticated and delicate passages that almost seem ambient, without ever falling into artificiality.
I wish I could dedicate a breath for every note, but it goes too fast to succeed. It never stumbles into unnecessary technicalities for their own sake, and his melodic guitar solutions are among the most fascinating I have ever heard. Just one listen projects us into the depths of oblivion, of pure pleasure: showers of notes bouncing here and there like frogs in the rain follow each other, awakening dormant instincts in me. This here is real music: the kind soaked in dreams, squeezing your heart until it drains the last drops of blood. It makes me think of a loved one who is no longer here, whose light I find among my shadows. I wonder what they would have thought of it: if they would have liked to listen to it.
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