(Photo by Mont Sherar)
For Paul Ferguson, it was always about the message. Oh sure, having cut his teeth on Zeppelin, Crimson and Sabbath, and come of age beating the crap out of a drum kit in the heady fallout of Punk, he was as fond of the adrenalized wallop of driving guitars and primal rhythms as the next embittered British hooligan of the late 70’s. But Paul wanted the impact to be more than simply sonic.
Circa 1978, having found kindred spirits while assembling the nascent ranks of the band that would become Killing Joke, he was re-christened “Big Paul” Ferguson – partly for the burly, tribal nature of his powerful percussive style – and infamously set about trying to define the outfit’s musical approach as, ahem, “the sound of the earth vomiting.” Even a cursory spin of the band’s seminal, self-produced 1980 debut reveals that this mission was very much accomplished.
Off and running, then, Paul helped steer the iconoclastic Killing Joke through six more ferally executed studio albums that found the band exploring, honing and refining its sound, asserting its worldview, broadening its fan base and even worrying the pop charts. But under the strain of trying to replicate the unlikely success of their elegiac single “Love Like Blood,” cracks were starting to show. In 1987, when what was ostensibly a solo project for vocalist Jaz Coleman was mandated by the band’s label as a new Killing Joke album, internal friction – always a constant – boiled over, dividing Paul and Jaz and driving the drummer out.
Untethered from the band he’d founded, Paul stayed musically active, working with new outfits like Warrior Soul and Crush, as well as projects closer to Killing Joke like Brilliant, The Orb and Murder Inc. Finding other creative outlets to explore in sculpture and art restoration, Paul moved on with his life. But the notion of rejoining the ranks of Killing Joke, however seemingly unlikely, always loomed. For more on this period, please refer to my interview with Paul from 2004.
After some near-misses, fate finally intervened. Brought together by the untimely death of erstwhile bassist Paul Raven in 2007, Paul found himself re-joining and re-completing the original line-up of Killing Joke in 2008. This resumption of duty has since spawned a critically acclaimed triptych of studio albums that amply demonstrate the undiminished power of the original band’s singular chemistry.
But even now in 2018, as the membership of Killing Joke prepares to launch an ambitious world tour to celebrate their 40th anniversary, Paul’s own muse has demanded more. Harnessing his own creative impulses and fusing them with the weighty necessity to vent his frustration at an increasingly complicated world, Big Paul Ferguson has released his first, proper solo effort. It’s called Remote Viewing, and it is a fittingly muscular document of intense music for a difficult era.
Co-produced with seasoned guitarist Mark Gemini Thwaite, the Remote Viewing EP is less a tidy bundle of ditties than a thirty-minute rhythmic rumination, punctuated be hefty dollops of hard truth, defiant affirmation and castigation. If you’re looking for the feel-good song of summer 2018, you won’t find that here.
While it may boast some of the unmissable earmarks of Killing Joke — from Paul’s distinctive drumming style to the signature sleeve art by Malicious Damage’s Mike Coles — the seven tracks that comprise this EP are in no way a diluted variant of Paul’s higher profile gig. While Killing Joke is in its DNA, it’s more evident in this project’s sensibility than its sound. Paul’s vocals eschew the barbaric yawp in favor of a nuanced delivery that mirrors the deliberate nature of his lyrics. Don’t mistake that subtlety for levity. On most selections here, his furrow-browed incantations pack more punch than any Cookie Monster growls could ever muster.
“Hungry Ghost” opens proceedings with a slow-building rumble underpinning Paul’s grim poetry before the track unfurls with cinematic expanse, revealing a layered maelstrom of Thwaite’s chugging guitars. While none the cheerier, “Reboot” sets Paul’s pleas for deliverance to a irrepressible, throbbing groove. Never has a cry for abatement been so … well… danceable. The thwomping drums return for “The Great Motivator,” a metallic mantra on overcoming trepidation that will suitably shake the rafters. “Terrible Warriors” begins like a lost track from the Last Poets, with Paul reciting verses over tenacious street percussion before the beats mutate into a corrosive industrial pulse. From here, it’s straight into the conceptual black heart of Remote Viewing, that being “X-Box,” a slowly metastasizing screed about the flaccid acceptance of vacuous pop-culture bullshit in the face a predatory societal system that feeds on the easily-distracted. Delivered with a seething, unblinking intensity, “X-Box” recalls Iggy Pop’s similarly inclined rant in the coda of “Paraguay” from 2016’s Post-Pop Depression. This is palpable venom sung from a soul old enough to have experienced the inequities of life first-hand.
But don’t sit down just yet. The thundering hooves of “I Am War” arrive to deliver another densely layered exorcism wherein Thwaite unleashes an electrical storm of guitar noise. The respite from the tempest comes last in the form of “Zarzal,” a dub lament named for an area of Puerto Rico close to Paul's heart where he rode out Hurricane Irma. While the track's lulling reverberation acts as a cooling comedown from what has preceded it, its mournful sentiment provides precious little consolation.
As a solo debut, Remote Viewing is an audacious statement steeped in thoughtful indignation and delivered as cleansing catharsis. It will demand your attention. You’d do well to succumb to that demand.
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