Vicious Rumors
Digital Dictator

What were the '80s? What happened to the '80s? What will remain of those '80s? But above all, what were the '80s for those who happened to be born in that decade?

I answer personally: I remember little of the '80s, sometimes only snippets of actions and memories of dreams dreamt at the time appear in my perpetual thinking. Childhood dreams are unforgettable because they stay with you forever—they make you dream first, then help you grow, become an adolescent, deceive you at some point, and finally, you end up hating them because you realize how different you were from when you saw and experienced them years ago. But perhaps the end of it all arrives when you start truly playing again, playing with imagination, because that's all that remains of your primary personality. Those dreams, once enemies, end up accompanying you like an old loyal hound to talk about the good old days, which perhaps weren't so good as remembered, but, indeed, memories ennoble everything, even the most unworthy past.

In the '80s, my reality wasn't particularly distinguishable from dreams; movies started at 8:30 pm, mostly watched on Italia Uno. The opening ritual was always the same: a pleasant-looking young lady with amiable manners introduced the imminent film. Then, the bumper would play: a ray of light would hit the sixth network's logo (a "one" framed in a rhombus [still in use today]), unraveling into a rainbow prism reminiscent of "Dark Side of the Moon" cover art. Then, the logo would lower, showing its edge, and the word "FILM" appeared thrice in uppercase: within this text, one could see three different clips—the first was from "Highlander," clearly showing Christopher Lambert nearing the final showdown, the second displayed a sort of strange aerial vehicle maneuvering through flames, and the last I don't remember.

I still hear that cheesy supermarket (or worse, hard discount) relaxation tune accompanying the opening: on its own, it would be dreadful, but time has managed to ennoble it.
Movies were divided into two main categories, those “of adventure” and those “of family,” and I could NEVER finish watching either, as the bedtime was usually between 9 and 9:30 pm. So, at best, with or without commercials, I watched at least a good half-hour of film: and at the time, half-hours felt long; time lasted long.
Nowadays, a month feels like half an hour from those days; I'm aging, and I don't like the idea at all.

Today is Sunday; Sunday never puts me in a good mood, ever since elementary school, because I knew the next day I would resume the cycle of the harshness of daily life. In the air, like a pigeon (read as a winged rat) facing imminent death, flew the end of the "vacation" from school obligations (not really, considering I still remember entire afternoons of torture behind those cursed math homework, with my hands smoking); well, let's stop with the nostalgia and start with the actual review.

As mentioned, in the '80s and early '90s, films were (I divided them) into two major genres, those “of family” and those “of adventure.” In “family” films, there were those comedies where one chuckled like adults or where everything centered around the most cloying sentimentalism. Adventure films, on the other hand, featured last-blood battles, military setups, laser swords (laser swords: understand what I'm talking about? :) Yes, precisely that trilogy...), spacecraft, champions of justice, fearless heroes, and unsheathed blades—a potpourri of pure action.

I imagined myself as the protagonist of an adventurous story, the hero of a film, the quintessential superhero, extremely strong and armed to the teeth (how predictable I was!); to get more into the subject's mood, an excellent soundtrack was necessary, and what could be better than that crazy, adrenaline-fueled music of Vicious Rumors?
Vicious Rumors created, in those much-praised by me '80s, that raw jewel of rare power; rawer than a drunken biker on Southern Comfort and cheap Mexican diesel.
"Digital Dictator" is the second album of the Californian band from Alameda, the first with that war machine named Carl Albert on vocals, who, according to Geoff Thorpe - guitarist and leader - was the best vocalist he'd ever collaborated with.

The vinyl hit store shelves on February 9th, 1988. Much (or all) of the material was recorded months earlier, in 1987, considering that mixing and pressing processes at the time were significantly prolonged. Ah! The fake speed of the '80s!
Guitarist duo Geoff Thorpe and Mark McGee wrote all ten tracks composing the entire work.
The work opens with the epic "Replicant," an instrumental introduction lasting only a minute,  at a medium speed that unexpectedly accelerates with the following track, the title track, so strong and sudden it takes your breath away; the atmosphere is purely Orwellian, the text listened to twenty years ago appears as a prophetic Cassandra outlining modern times: these times of depersonalization, incommunicability, and oppression of human potential's virtues, violently opposed by increasingly intrusive and indiscreet electronics: the true digital dictator, invisible and unassailable; but the sound violence—controlled though it may be—and the high notes do not step aside for the next track, "Minute to Kill", while somewhat slower "Towns on Fire" begins with a martial drum and a harmonious and, at the same time, a reckless design by the two guitars intersecting in a marvelous sci-fi decoration. Personally, I find the chorus melodically very catchy, with the battle cry of the backing vocals chanting the song's title.

The shout of "alright!" marks the start of Geoff's introductory solo in "Lady Took a Change," the most praiseworthy part of this yet another muscular piece, but never as brawny as "Worlds and Machine," which surprises by opening with a choir of clean guitars, the usual superior technical mastery; a slow and light introduction, betrayed in less than a minute when the pace quickens, and the power and distortion ride begins, characterizing several pearls of this work: a very melodic, less aggressive chorus, certainly not White Lion, not Bon Jovi, not glam or hair (never!), but lighter than one might imagine listening to the rest of the song.
The film continues, reaching "The  Crest," which begins with a powerful power chord riff persisting throughout all the verses: continuation and repetition.

Like a lightning bolt comes "R.L.H.", a mosh piece with what I personally consider the best vocal lines of all nine songs (I mean nine as they are sung, and not ten, as the first is an instrumental piece).
We're nearing the end, at "Condemned." "Condemned" opens with strange sounds, almost like  "vicious noises" ;) paraphrasing the band's monicker, it's the most catchy piece of all the work: the chorus is even easier than that of "World and Machine," yet despite everything you can always and everywhere recognize the sharp trademark of Geoff and company.
"Out of the Shadow" has the honor of the closure, with a powerful roll to start the dance, closing with an equally vigorous display, but by Carl launching the highest, most powerful, and longest high note of "Digital Dictator.”
Just under thirty-nine minutes, not quite forty, but thirty-nine minutes full of war, from a lineup completed by Dave Starr and Larry Howe on the rhythm section, with a machine-gun bass and a tracked drum offering the listener no more than a minute's respite.

Lineup sadly recently orphaned by the (future) renowned guitar hero Vinnie Moore (later with UFO, Alice Cooper, and esteemed solo virtuoso of the six-string), who left the scene alongside singer Gary St. Pierre after the release of the debut "Soldiers of the Night."
I still wonder how "Digital Dictator" would have sounded without Mark McGhee and with Vinnie still giving his back and soul to the VR's inflamed Marshalls.
"Digital Dictator" stands as the pinnacle of Vicious Rumors's entire production: a high point our heroes will never match again in terms of genius combined with technical skill which never seems invasive or tediously an exercise in self-acclaim.

If you're looking for an album that perfectly represents what heavy metal and US heavy metal were, you've found it, it’s this one. If you're searching for one with the flavor of b-movies full of eternally sweaty centaurs, long hair waving in the wind, stinking of rotten whiskey, cheap sci-fi, and endless action, well, you don't have to look far: you've just found it!

Sadly, in the "Beautiful Country," this work is of scant availability; it was never released except on vinyl, and existing copies on the peninsula and this side of the Alps are sold at exorbitant prices: it would be time to elevate it to the glory of the DELUXE EDITION, with remastering of the original and an accompanying CD with demos, outtakes, and live recordings from the period; all hopefully accompanied by an interesting booklet detailing the saga.
A small note on Carl Albert; Carl wasn't the band's second vocalist, but the third, though undoubtedly the most important for various reasons, the most loved, the most charismatic, and the most technically and executively gifted. Before him and St. Pierre, the microphone belonged to someone named Mark Tate, who left no traces for posterity, not even on the two demos (which I own) from 1983, as he left the lineup the previous year.

Carl managed to record three more albums, an EP, and release a live recorded in Tokyo, before leaving the band... for good. Sadly, he passed away prematurely on May 22, 1995, nine days after his 33rd birthday, due to a car accident: a few months after his death, an official "bootleg" dedicated to him, "A Tribute to Carl Albert," was released, featuring recordings from his last tour with the band and including three demos: it contained a couple of tracks from "Digital Dictator," namely the title track and "World and Machine."