Death

Chuck Shuldiner (born Charles Michael Schuldiner in Glen Cove, New York, on May 13, 1967) began reckoning with death before he had even turned ten. He was, to be precise, nine years old when Frank, his sixteen-year-old brother — the one he loved to play with and make plans for the future with, despite the age gap — went to meet his Maker, whether through a tragic car accident or an accidental gunshot, it makes no real difference, you'll agree. What matters is that, from that exact moment on, young Chuck (who had recently moved with his family to Florida, specifically to Altamonte Springs, near Orlando) got the feeling that the world, his world, was no longer a safe place free of danger, because something, nobody knows quite how or why, is always lurking, ready to strike.

In an effort to soothe his own pain, Chuck threw himself headlong into studying the electric guitar, doing pretty much everything on his own, because that's just how he was: he couldn't stand being told what to do, preferring instead to work in complete solitude, and if he couldn't manage something on his own terms, he'd find his own way to do it, however unorthodox — even if that meant inventing scales and fingerings from scratch, just to give voice to what was boiling inside him.

Meanwhile, a string of records kept spinning on his turntable, but his first true passion was Kiss, above all because their ranks included guitarist Ace Frehley, the one who played a smoking guitar, a smoke-belching six-string aimed at those in music who were also after a bit of spectacle. Chuck, though, couldn't care less about the frills: for him, music was already a matter of life and, ça va sans dire, of death, to the point where school could go hang for all he cared. At first, his parents weren't thrilled about what to them was nothing more than a rash whim, though they eventually went along with the decision, albeit with reservations: Chuck had to prove that he could build a future out of this all-consuming passion, and that meant just one thing — landing a record deal as soon as possible, or else he might as well hang up his beloved guitar for good.

The very young Chuck, however, already had very clear ideas. He loved metal, especially the harder stuff, which at the time (we're at the start of the Eighties) meant heading straight for thrash and black metal, with bands like Slayer and Venom towering above all the rest in his heart, even though his passion for heavy metal had already received a decisive spark from hearing "Heavy Metal Maniac" by Exciter, the band led by guitarist John Ricci, whose riffs Chuck repeatedly tried to imitate, only to realize it was wasted time, time that was eating into his freedom to try things his own way. And so, while he kept listening to a bit of everything, not turning his nose up at classical or jazz, but wrinkling it at country and rap — two genres he would never truly warm to — he started writing his own material. He was still very young when, in 1983, he joined forces with drummer-vocalist Kam Lee and guitarist Rick Rozz to form Mantas, whose first demo, "Death By Metal," recorded as best they could on a Panasonic tape recorder and put into circulation around the first half of 1984, revealed a band eager to make some noise, albeit still very much in its infancy.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the States, between March and April of 1985, in that San Francisco which had once been the cradle of psychedelic culture and had by then become one of the epicenters of the American metal scene, Possessed were recording the tracks for their debut album, which would be released that October under the title "Seven Churches," a fixture in any discussion of the origins of so-called "death metal." The band led by guitarist Larry LaLonde (who during the Nineties would find a measure of fame in the ranks of Primus, led by bass genius Les Claypool) was the first to title one of its songs with the very phrase "death metal," something Chuck would always remind everyone of whenever they called him the "godfather" of a genre so deeply concerned with death and its henchmen.

Possessed certainly carried some weight in defining death metal (marked, besides a dark, heavy sound, by the use of guttural, "rotten" vocals — growl is the technical term) — no doubt about it... and yet their music was not yet as dark, heavy and brutal as that of Death would become, the new incarnation of Mantas, which Chuck had disbanded in the meantime, though without losing touch with Lee and Rozz, who were in fact, in the depths of autumn, after putting the "Death By Metal" demo back out under the new band name, called back into action to record the five tracks of "Reign In Terror," on which the theme of death reigned supreme.

Chuck was by now determined to play faster and more violently than ever, all the while nursing the dream of going to breathe, in person, the air of San Francisco. He arrived there towards the end of 1985, met a good number of people, dusted off the Death name with the help of other musicians, and kept working hard on his guitar. In 1986 he then flew to Toronto, Canada, summoned by Slaughter, who wanted him in the lineup for the recording of their debut, "Strappado." Homesickness and depression nearly drove him out of his mind, so Chuck quickly retraced his steps, more convinced than ever that the only path worth following was the one dictated by his own instinct.

With the help of Californian drummer Chris Reifert, he set to work on the material that would end up on "Scream Bloody Gore" (1987), an LP on which Chuck also played bass, in addition to singing and playing guitar. It was the turning point. Death metal had given birth to its firstborn, decked out in horror-movie atmospheres, blistering sonic beatdowns, scorching riffs and vicious, malevolent growls. Still raw, of course, produced in anything but exemplary fashion, and yet absolutely essential to the evolution of a genre that, for many, from that moment on, would be less the "metal of death" than simply "the metal played by Chuck Schuldiner's band" — and, at most, by those who chose to follow in his footsteps.

But within that "butcher's thrash," as the specialist press described it for lack of a better term, within those lacerating, often parodistically violent textures, the then twenty-year-old Chuck Schuldiner had no intention of boxing himself in once and for all. Perfectionist that he was, he went back to work hard, until he planted, in that still largely virgin territory, the pitch-black flag of "Leprosy" (1988), an album that marked a leap in quality not only on a compositional level (songs that were on average more structured; a more carefully worked-out interplay between lead and rhythm guitar; more polished, inspired solos; a melodic touch that here and there refined a sound that poured out of the speakers like an electric hurricane), but also in terms of lyric writing, no longer simply drawing on the gore aesthetic that the nascent grindcore scene was also exploring in depth at the time (and often pushing as far as worshipping the "stench of putrefaction," as the earliest, monstrous Carcass did), but instead bent toward speaking of the tragic human condition, cornered by the mystery of life and death.

In the grooves of "Leprosy," Chuck's desperate, tormented voice stands out as the clearest symptom of a deep-seated suffering rooted in the fear of the Grim Reaper, a fear he always tried to keep at bay through the constant refinement of his own music — which led him to change lineups with practically every record, partly because, sure, Chuck wasn't the easiest character, and if he had something to say, he'd say it to your face, no beating around the bush, but above all because Death could not be a band like any other, being, in effect, the sonic extension of his own psyche, unique and unrepeatable. A psyche that, on the threshold of the Nineties, began digging into its own labyrinthine layers, so it's no surprise that with "Spiritual Healing" (1990) the technical side of Death's music became firmly, definitively established. With James Murphy on second guitar, Terry Butler on bass and Bill Andrews on drums, "Spiritual Healing" showed that death metal could aspire to being a highly ambitious sonic expression too, touching, when necessary, on the deepest roots of what it means to be human.

It was no coincidence, then, that "Human" became the title of the album that, during the legendary year of 1991, took Death even higher, toward progressive shores, because his music, so Chuck said, had to keep evolving constantly, since only that which is in constant evolution, one might add, does not rot, does not decompose. For Chuck, "Human" was a genuine vindication. All sorts of things had been said about him: that he was surly, hot-tempered, arrogant, you name it. There was also a good deal of envy going around in that scene. Some of his peers hadn't made it and found nothing better to do than let themselves be driven by the ferocious instinct of that feeling. And yet many of those who envied him were still wallowing in the swampy waters of a cavernous, crude death metal, increasingly fixated on gruesome, blood-soaked imagery, whereas Death — his Death — were by now light years away from such banalities, and so Chuck was now keen to shout it from the rooftops, backed by music that dissected death to extract from it precious life force.

Having left "Human" behind, and bid farewell to guitarist Paul Masvidal and drummer Sean Reinert, with whom there had been no shortage of clashes and friction during the recording of "Human," Chuck once again found himself redefining the shape of his creature.

Bassist Steve DiGiorgio had also initially thought about bowing out, since Chuck wasn't easy to deal with, given his perfectionism and rather fiery temper, but he later reversed his decision. Of clear Italian descent (his paternal grandparents, who moved to the United States after World War II, came from the Cassino area), DiGiorgio was born in Waukegan, Illinois, on November 7, 1967, and had gravitated toward rock from a very young age, when he began losing himself in the grooves of Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Rush, Yes and Jethro Tull. It was actually this last band that had a decisive influence on his bass style. It all started in 1980, when he listened to "A", the thirteenth studio album by the English outfit led by singer and flautist Ian Anderson: DiGiorgio was so struck by the sound of Dave Pegg's (ex-Fairport Convention) fretless that he pulled all the frets off his own bass and started digging into this new version of his instrument. Listening to Mick Karn of Japan, Gary Willis of the fusion progressive outfit Tribal Tech, and Jaco Pastorius rounded out his first, foundational pantheon of influences.

The first metal band to give him any real visibility was Sadus, who debuted in 1988 with "Illusions", a very important record for the fortunes of the more technical strand of thrash metal, vaguely influenced by the earliest stirrings of death metal. By that time, DiGiorgio had already had the chance to meet Chuck in San Francisco, back when "Scream Bloody Gore" hadn't yet hit record store shelves and Death were still only a hot name among metalheads who traded tapes. That meeting would prove decisive for both of them, since their paths would cross again during the "Human" era, and then again for "Individual Thought Patterns". But for the latter to see the light of day, another drummer and another guitarist needed to be recruited first.

The first was found by Chuck in Gene Hoglan, a native of Dallas, Texas, where he was born on August 31, 1967, into a family of Mexican and Native American descent. Having been drawn, thanks to his father's influence, to mariachi music, at thirteen he sat behind a drum kit for the first time, cutting his teeth trying to replicate what he heard on Rush and Kiss records, courtesy of Peter Criss and Neil Peart respectively.

Having left behind an intense stint as a roadie for a number of glam bands from the Los Angeles scene (W.A.S.P. and Mötley Crüe, among others), Hoglan then found a place on the Slayer crew, where he rubbed shoulders with the great Dave Lombardo, to whom he also gave valuable advice on the use of double bass drumming. In 1985 he was finally able to put his drumming technique to use by joining thrashers Dark Angel, where he quickly earned admiration for his extreme precision, which would earn him the nickname "The Atomic Clock".

When Dark Angel broke up, about a year and a half after releasing "Time Does Not Heal" (1991), Hoglan turned to session work, before getting a call from Borivoj Krgin, who knew Chuck and figured Hoglan would be a perfect fit for him. Thanks to the involvement of the Serbian-born journalist, the two of them, after clearing up some old friction dating back to the Ultimate Revenge 2 Tour, during which Death and Dark Angel had shared several stages alongside Forbidden, Faith Or Fear and Raven, found they had an almost telepathic understanding. "Working with him was simply a breeze, because we always got along," Hoglan would recall.

In theory, Chuck could have avoided hiring another guitarist altogether and done as he had done back on "Scream Bloody Gore", when he played all the guitar parts himself. But those days were far behind his new musical horizon, and besides, aside from that one exception, he had never gone without a second guitarist, because, as he would later reveal to Jeff Kitts of Guitar School, he had grown up listening to countless bands built around "a twin-guitar attack", which had taught him that, "if you want to be really heavy", "if you want to add variety to the music", you can't limit yourself to having just one guitar in your band.

That's how Andy LaRocque (born November 29, 1962) entered the picture, a Swedish guitarist from Göteborg, where between the ages of twelve and thirteen he had first picked up a six-string, driven by his passion for the music of Black Sabbath, Thin Lizzy and Blue Öyster Cult, as well as some glam heroes such as Sweet, Slade, Marc Bolan and Alice Cooper. His career took off in 1985, the year he joined King Diamond, led by the singer of the same name, whom fans had already come to admire and celebrate when he fronted Mercyful Fate. In King Diamond's ranks, LaRocque made a name for himself with a style influenced by neoclassical sounds, which he had first come to appreciate through the work of Yngwie Malmsteen and Michael Schenker. "When Chuck contacted me," LaRocque would recall, "we weren't doing much with King Diamond. Actually, we were looking for a record deal, and on top of that Mercyful Fate were about to reunite. So I thought it was a great opportunity to try something different."

With an absolutely stellar trio of musicians behind him, Chuck was able to fully develop his new ideas, which pointed toward a record that was in some ways even heavier than "Human", marked by more intricate structures and clear melodic openings, because, as Chuck put it, "I don't want Death's music to become ordinary, so I always look for a good balance between melody and heaviness." To prepare the new songs as thoroughly as possible, the quartet rehearsed tirelessly in an old garage on the outskirts of Altamonte Springs, "between a washing machine and a dryer, a lawnmower and some garden tools." It was the same garage where, between 1983 and 1984, Chuck had cut his teeth with Mantas, and that, he would say, helped "keep him grounded" as he charted, day after day, new paths through the dark valley of death metal.

In January 1993, the new Death lineup finally walked through the doors of Morrisound Recording, the famous Tampa, Florida studio where, thanks in part to the work of producer Scott Burns, one of the most important chapters - if not the single most important chapter - of early death metal's history had essentially been written. Aside from a few initial misunderstandings, particularly between Chuck and LaRocque, with the former used to having everything ready before recording and the latter far more relaxed and reliant on in-the-moment inspiration, the sessions for "Individual Thought Patterns", the title chosen for the new record, proceeded over five weeks in a relatively easygoing atmosphere, and on June 22 of that same year, the follow-up to "Human" arrived fresh off the press in record stores, wrapped in a cover depicting an X-ray image of a human head, together with the band's logo, looming over a view of planet Earth. The impact was, and still is, magnificent, and it testifies to Chuck's determination to carry on the exploration of the human condition already begun on "Human", but here taken to even greater artistic heights.

The ten tracks on the record come together to form a single, monolithic cathartic statement: in the preceding years, Chuck had been forced to swallow so much crap that a record like "Individual Thought Patterns" marked a fundamental turning point for him, both as a person and as a musician. "I want to show the world my true worth," he said around the time of the album's release. And also: "Without tuning the guitars very low, it's possible to play music that's heavy and melodic at the same time," music that, among other things, never shies away from "taking risks." And then he added, without fear of sounding presumptuous: "You could say I'm trying to save death metal from failure." Except Chuck didn't like calling his music by that name, "death metal", because too many pretenders had turned it into a crude business of guttural screaming and crumbling sonic architecture (someone even tried to pin the Cannibal Corpse name on him, but it didn't stick), and so, whenever he was asked how to define this music of his, so powerful and steeped in existential pathos, he would simply say two words: "loud metal."

Writing and recording the ten tracks of "Individual Thought Patterns" had brought him great satisfaction. Listening back to them, he realized he had truly outdone himself: "I'm very pleased with the balanced, versatile and stable sound we created," he told Wim Baelus of the Dutch magazine Aardschok. "The big difference compared to previous releases lies mainly in the specific approach taken for each individual track, an approach that makes "Individual Thought Patterns" more varied and flexible.

"Human", in fact, was fairly direct, very aggressive and brutal (in another interview from the period he would also call it "one-dimensional", ed.). Even in some of the new tracks, like "Overactive Imagination", "In Human Form" or "Mentally Blind", there's plenty of room for pure energy and aggression, but compared to the past there's a lot more subtlety. We started experimenting with all kinds of unusual techniques when it came to riffs, melodic lines and solo parts: despite their bizarre constructions, we got great results. Ultimately, I'd say the new album is defined by more contrasting moods and emotions, which makes the whole thing refreshing and gripping."

Clear, crystal clear, in fact. To prove his point, all you need is the first minute of "Overactive Imagination", which kicks off with a sharp drum blast and launches into a full-on assault, with Hoglan hammering away relentlessly, DiGiorgio scurrying like an octopus over his fretless, and the guitars weaving together like a whirlwind: LaRocque's rhythm playing, melodic and vaguely neoclassical in flavor, and Chuck's lead work (on a B.C. Rich Custom) slashing through the wall of sound with razor-sharp cuts that literally make his Marshall ValveState shake.

The vocals seethe with unrelenting rage, relying not on the classic death-metal growl but on a tortured, claustrophobic scream. Chuck was never really happy with his voice, but he knew it was entirely "his own": "I think my voice is the biggest limitation of our music. That's just the reality of things. It's too shocking and brutal to break through to a mainstream audience, and there's no way around that. I know a lot of people don't take this style of singing seriously. I just try to do my best with what I've got. I honestly feel pretty self-conscious about my voice and I work really hard to do my best with it. Still, I like to think my voice has a bit more personality than your average death-metal singer. Most singers don't put much effort into their singing, or they lean heavily on effects. Not me. There's no bullshit when it comes to my voice: what you hear is me, and only me!"

In "Overactive Imagination", Chuck lashes out at the dishonesty that governs most human beings, so intent and focused on playing out a script that their performance has by now turned into an actual drug. There are very few people truly worth trusting, especially within the music industry, as Chuck came to learn firsthand over the course of his career, growing ever more convinced that the world is nothing but one vast theater, almost echoing the Spanish playwright Calderón de la Barca (1600-1681).

Your existence is a script,

Life for you is a perfomance,

Play out the leading role.

Specifically, some of the opening lines of “Overactive Imagination” take aim at the music press, populated by several people whose perception of things is clouded by an “overactive imagination”.

Directing and premeditating every move

That creates the act of manipulation

Mastering the art of deception.

That increases your sick addiction

It’s an overactive imagination

That enslaves your empty shell

“I ran into people from the press who asked me if I was an alcoholic, a drug addict, if I'd been in a psychiatric ward, or even if I was about to start a glam band. They asked me that seriously, and none of it was true,” Chuck would later complain in an interview given to Joab Jackson of Rox Magazine.

Over the rugged, jagged midtempo of “In Human Form”, one of the album's most melodic and progressive tracks, but also one of the most massive in the way it pours out of the speakers like a lava flow in which rhythm, riff and words merge into a powerful fusion, Chuck and LaRocque duel brilliantly with superb solos, while the lyrics portray man as an “out of control” creature best kept at arm's length.

People of the earth beware,

It is here in human form

An atrocity laced with greed.

Filled with evil intentions

Ready to attack

After an initial descending section, marked by the drums' stentorian hits and the bass's “rubbery” digressions, heightened by Scott Burns' excellent production, “Jealousy” launches into a continuum of scorching accelerations, martial scansions and dizzying runs that also evoke early-days thrash. Tackling the theme of jealousy, Chuck keeps stirring through his memory, lashing out fiercely at those who had targeted him simply because, in his view, he had succeeded where others had failed. Yet jealousy craves nothing but what it cannot have, because “behind the eyes there's a place/ that no one will ever be able to touch/ and where thoughts reside/ that cannot be taken away or replaced”, meaning that every man hides within himself something that not even jealousy can chip away at, something that for Chuck always represented the most intimate refuge in which to retreat to meditate and create.

“Trapped In A Corner” meticulously builds its steel framework, between brutal, technical riffs, dramatic breaks, circular decompositions and vibrant solos that, around the third minute, converge into an unforgettable climax, perfect for capturing the fury Chuck unleashes against hypocrites, those who, sooner or later, will find themselves “trapped in a corner”.

You will fall short of the dreams to destroy

In time you will find yourself trapped in a corner

These four words my friend,

I promise you will not forget

“Nothing Is Everything” alternates geometric phrasing, hammering progressions and a melodic refrain with melancholic tones. “Emotions take control of everyday life/ Unpredictable behavior variations,” Chuck sings in the track's most dramatic passage, which also condenses its meaning: our life is at the mercy of emotions, yet, if we manage to find “the key” to the “mental door”, then we can reach “another world far away/ a different existence, but practically the same”, there “where nothing is everything, and everything is nothing”.

The solemn, combative pace of the first part of “Mentally Blind” sets the stage for a frantic thrash-death surge, a prelude to the explosion of a memorable chorus that descends upon us like a dazzling apotheosis, bolstered by synths that reinforce its impact: “From the mentally blind come ideas/ that are poison/ take away the power/ a shallow person you will find”. Human beings who are “mentally closed”, Chuck points out, are unable to accept and respect other people's ideas. This makes their opinions self-destructive, and all they gain is despair: “Your opinions are self-destructive/ Despair is your gain”.

The density of the title track is absolutely terrifying. Hoglan and DiGiorgio weave a rhythmic framework that's as monolithic as it is dynamic (the former's double-kick pedal races along at breakneck speed, while the latter's bass strings snap with elastic frenzy, in a vibrant blend of power and fusion flourishes), while the two guitars spark off each other like a pair of speeding trains. The “individual thought patterns” are those models of free interpretation of the world and one's relationship with it that every person must pursue if they truly want to escape the mass hypnosis (which is “a drug, it feeds the imagination”) caused by the dominance of television and mass media in general.

An atmospheric arpeggio of acoustic guitars serves as the prelude to “Destiny”, whose first section unfolds along the trajectory of a dramatic midtempo, before the track inevitably rears up, moving through blazing triangulations and airier passages. Set here and there is a steely refrain, perfect for evoking the unbreakable force of fate: “Destiny is what we all seek/ Destiny was waiting for you and me”. The theme of destiny fascinated Chuck throughout his life, intimidated as he was, like any self-respecting human being since the dawn of our adventure on this earth, by the “unexpected things” (“The unexpected I sometimes fear”) that the passing of time — “a thing we must accept” — keeps handing us at every turn. The only way to set things right is to understand that man cannot control destiny, and recognizing its unshakeable power makes pain acceptable, because necessary: only by passing through it is it possible to reach the deepest, most hidden depths of our psyche, where “the other half, the true one” lies hidden.

I know there is no way to avoid the pain

That we must go through

To find the other half that is true

Before erupting into yet another prog-tech-death massacre, “Out Of Touch” lingers in an atmospheric prelude, bolstered by the keyboards. Among the album's less celebrated tracks, “Out Of Touch” boasts a fascinating blend of jagged textures, old-school digressions with a whiff of NWOBHM, and triumphant runs. The lyrics, meanwhile, denounce the dead end that the death-metal scene — in its search for an ever more extreme, and often less original, sound — had stumbled into after an initial, thrilling phase: “To be extreme/ so it seems is a mental crutch/ To cover up for those/ that are completely out of touch”. The urge to constantly push beyond his own limits, toward a sound that was as technical as it was powerful, had driven Chuck away from those who remained “trapped in a lost world/ made of brutality”.

To seal his masterpiece, Chuck wrote “The Philosopher”, another track built on progressive architecture and a jagged sound, with DiGiorgio once again adding his jazz touch and Hoglan delivering yet another surgical performance behind the kit. In one of his most anguished lyrics, Chuck lashes out at the figure of the “philosopher”, here understood as the kind of person who, shut away in the metaphorical room of their abstract theories, fails to achieve any real understanding of the world and of others. Most likely, Chuck's true target was his former bandmate Paul Masvidal, who often irritated him with his pseudo-philosophical rants about being and appearing.

Do you feel what I feel,

See what I see,

Hear what I hear

There is a line you must draw

Between your dream world and reality

Having reached the peak of his art with an album destined to leave an indelible mark on the history of extreme metal, especially its most technical, progressive and “existential” strands, Schuldiner did not rest on his laurels. True to his motto (“let the metal flow”) he instead tried to push even further, releasing, two years later, “Symbolic” (again with Hoglan on drums, while the largely unknown Kelly Conlon and Bobby Koelble were brought in on bass and guitar respectively), an album that sounds less claustrophobic and complex than “Individual Thought Patterns”, but also slightly more melodic.

From a thematic standpoint, Chuck instead pursued an introspective analysis that, on this record, takes on a bleak melancholy. The search for light, as he sings in “Perennial Quest”, necessarily passes through darkness, but in the end one comes to understand that answers can only be found in a “perennial quest”, suggesting that restlessness is an essential part of the human condition.

After “Symbolic”, Chuck would bring the curtain down on the Death adventure, eager to devote himself to even more technical and intricate music, one that nonetheless didn't shy away from looking, when needed, to metal's more “classic” roots. Thus Control Denied were born, releasing in 1999 a rather unconvincing “The Fragile Art Of Existence”, an album whose title, with hindsight, suggests just how deeply Chuck sensed the fragility of his own existence. After all, a year earlier, having had to revive the Death name for contractual reasons, he had come out with “The Sound Of Perseverance”, which, blending the prog-death-metal template with the most technical thrash, proclaimed to the world all the tenacity and perseverance of a musician madly in love with music and with life in all its forms.

Within a year, his life would be upended by a diagnosis of brain cancer, followed by an ordeal of debilitating treatments, health-insurance struggles and passionate attempts to hold on to hope that shattered against the wall of the irreparable when, on December 13, 2001, death — the one he had begun reckoning with before he'd even turned ten — revealed itself to him in the flesh, delivering him to legend.

If it were possible, I'd like to live forever

(Chuck Schuldiner)

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04/12/2022