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"AAAAAAAEEEEEEGH!" RAY ALDER IS screaming and singing these days. With his new
side project, Engine, he can afford to flex his cords a trifle more than he does
with the respected Connecticut prog-metal outfit Fates Warning, which he's
fronted for the past 10 years while contributing little of its material. With
that band on between-tour hiatus, Alder flopped back in L.A. (where he's lived on
and off for years) with the notion of realizing a dream that had long simmered
under his 3-foot waterfall of hair. Though the multilinked, stop-and-start Fates
arrangements were an essential part of his life, he jonesed for the kind of
heavy, nasty grooves over which he could rage his own melodies, his own lyrics
and his own screams.
What happened the first time he cut loose one of the soul-tearing wails that
slice now and then through the new Metal Blade Records release ENGINE? "I didn't
want a cigarette for a couple hours," says Alder. "Let's put it that way." His
momentary hoarseness isn't from the screaming, though; he's just returned from
Europe, where he estimates he did 75 interviews in three days for a Continental
press that was showering top ratings on Engine before it even came out.
The scribes responded to a new facet of Alder's identity as well as a new musical
direction. "The album is very dark, despondent," he says. "Funny, because I'm the
happiest guy in the world."
In spite of his Caligari eyes and Mephistopheles beard, you believe him: Here's a
smiling guy who talks like a play-by-play announcer, spins around town in a
cherry-red Mustang GT, has a beautiful longtime girlfriend (actress Amy Motta)
and loves his adoptive city. He surely fits here better than he did back in
Connecticut, where he first signed on with Fates as a drop-jawed 18-year-old
Texan named Raymond Balderrama.
"Everyone was looking at me, going, 'What is he? Puerto Rican? Cuban?' They'd
never seen a Mexican."
So how does a sunny gent do justice to the dark sound in his bones? Never having
penned lyrics before, he drew on new fears, old family disruptions and painful
relationships to compose words that are both intelligent, and nonspecific enough
to mean something to anyone: "I love it when you teach me how to hate you," "I
know the monster wants me," "Suicide is superseded" -- hey, he even spells
superseded right!
And lord, can he sing 'em. Alder possesses a combination of power, control and
range that's rare anytime, but especially rare in an American hard-rock band of
the present moment.
"There are a lot of great bands now -- great riffs, heavy as hell, knock the shit
out of you. But all the singing is kind of the same: gwah-gwah. I think we have
just the right mixture."
Listeners certainly agree in Europe, where virtuosic heavy-metal vocals have
never receded from fashion. Engine's instrumental sound doesn't require much of a
leap for Americans, though. Guitarist Bernie Versailles, locally known for his
work with Agent Steel, collaborated with Alder on riffs desperate enough for any
urban commando.
"I'd call Bernie," says Alder, "and leave messages on his answering machine:
'This is the riff -- da-da-da,' and 'Here's how the drums should go, and this is
what the vocal melody's gonna be.' And he'd call me later and say, 'Come down
later, I put it down on tape.' And it was exact . . . same key and everything."
Pete Parada, of the hardcore punk band Face to Face, is a killer. "He beats the
shit out of his drums. You see him, and he's always cut. He's got a busted
finger, he's got blood on his shorts."
And Joey Vera, formerly of Armored Saint, made every bass note do the work of
four with his imaginative harmonic sense and enormous low-end deposits. Just as
important, his production savvy turned the small demo studio where Engine was
recorded into a dynamic furnace -- this is one of the best-sounding records
you'll hear.
SCENE: THE FOUR ARE PERFORMING live for the first time at the Garage in
mid-September, pounding through five songs for a crowd of interested parties and
random onlookers, just to see what it feels like. It feels good. The riffs are
big and simple enough to overcome a mediocre PA. Some jaded listeners are rocked
back on their heels; their heads soon nod to the beat.
Alder is bent over, howling out his gospel as if he expects the boards to
memorize it, his eyes tight closed -- which they might as well be, with all that
hair hanging over his face. Everything works. Except the stage. Even though he
doesn't move that much, this is one singer who needs more room. Hope he gets it.
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