Right Turn, Clyde

Though this may seem in reverse, in the B.Z. (Before Zeppelin) era of our collective rock fandom, otherwise dubbed “those excessive eyeliner days,” we dug on nü metal, the lovechild of heavy metal, grunge and progressive rock. Physical Graffiti would eventually replace Sevendust, but Tool softies we remained. Bands that faithfully followed the 10 Metal Commandments, conveniently scribed in the head-banger’s bible, were therefore heavily spun—in stereo and on-air, every hour on the hour, as per MTV news.

Alas, nü metal seemingly faded fast into some beautiful oblivion of lost genres, home of monster ballads and Mother-fuckin’ Love Bone. Or maybe it’s been frozen in Riverside all along, holed-up in Allan Chadwick’s garage. If we’ve learned anything from the head-banger’s testament, it’s that a second coming—the resurrection of mislaid metal—is ever imminent. That said, Chadwick and his band of cronies—Clyde—might have inadvertently become nü metal’s re-instigating sons in 2004. And you know something? We just can’t help banging our heads to that.

With past lyrics to the tone of “I hate everything” and “push me, smack me, bite me, beat me,” not to mention frequently feuding members and brief hiatuses, Clyde’s story already sounds like a metal joke without a punch line. But the band is nowhere near that make-a-two-year-documentary-like-Some Kind of Monster level. Its differences are the hands that feed.

An illustration-by-numbers (including fun metal-factors, maybe scribed in aforementioned headbanger’s bible) follows: 

Frontman: Chadwick acquired unconventional guitar methods from his bluegrass-playing, “hillbilly” granddad, along with a hand-me-down assortment of strange instruments—metal-logically speaking. He’s now hardcore on indie and bluegrass, perhaps strumming a Ryan ditty on an Autoharp in that garage of his.

Metal-factor: He has married many women. Now that’s Tommy Lee-heavy, but, seriously, he’s an ordained minister thanks to a seminary scholarship. He also has the vox of a Maynard James Keenan-addict, his songs echoing side-schemes in sound and length—we’re talking nine-minute-epics here). 

Drummer: Matthew Nolasco, who grew up on Chicago and speed metal, routinely pounds his kit in high-mode—producing L-O-U-D and thrashing beats that amplify Clyde’s combined tempo (the crank it or lose it argument is constant), potentially explaining the “nü metal” sound.

Metal-factor: Nolasco began drumming after realizing that with music, chicks will come from Aquabats buddy Ricky Falomir. Plus, he says: “If we don’t have instruments in front of us, the four of us are the best of friends.” (And that’s positively Spinal Tap-heavy).

Bassist: Mike Sparks (schooled on dad’s Doors LPs) and guitarist Grant Sims (schooled on Styx and Steve Perry) were college roommates and bandmates, sharing a Plant-Page relationship by cementing Clyde’s foundation—all while providing the band’s hesher backbeat.

Metal-factor: They’re a team of balancing forces—Sparks is the strong, silent, Italian type with lots of flannel and pictures of himself by Lamborghini’s, while Sims is the dominating talent who condensed Chadwick’s epics to four-or-five minutes. And here’s another thing—that guy can shred.

Obvious Tool stimulus and discrepancies aside, Clyde sounds a lot like none of the bands they listen to, but a lot like our old Circus and Hit Parader subjects. Maybe it’s pent-up hostility, or a merger of moshing enthusiasms, or perhaps a hunt for alternately harsh and holy lyrics to match Sims’ chaotic tendencies, but the band has garnered X103.9 play and a full-length record . . .  soon-to-be two. 

“We all live and breathe music,” Nolasco says. “You’ll never catch any of us in front of the TV, well, unless there’s a sporting event, because we’re always making music, no matter what.”

Now, someone almost always wants to know who “Clyde” is, literally: which member in Clyde is “Clyde?” And everywhere the band goes, trouble seems to follow—thus the reason why we declined a very kind post-interview bar invite. Clyde’s seen its share of devils (and riots) in several Angeleno towns over the years, mostly because they ran the LA circuit ragged following the release of 2005’s eponymous debut album. Operating on youthful momentum and naïveté, they shopped the first LP through cold mailing, a method later proved to be a bad route for landing a label. 

Clyde’s latest offerings are more prog than nü metal (the lovechild had to grow up sometime), less screamo and more emo (at least lyrically), but Tool softies they’ve remained. Songs like “Hey Judas Thanks” and “Billie Had a Seizure” are increasingly reflective of the inner-Clyde—not some kind of monster, but musical peace of mind—though we’ve learned “Clyde” is every which way but loose.

Yes, the band sometimes falls behind, breaking-up monthly amid music makin’ friction, or sacrificing members to journey-called-life responsibilities like chopper-school (Chadwick) and Italy homecomings (Sparks) . . . but the band’s currently at that finish-everything-once-started-point. And we’ll bang our heads to that, too.

Clyde begins recording at Riverside’s Love Juice Studios on March 8. For more information visit www.myspace.com/clydeband.

If you're an IE-based band and would like the Bell Sisters to hear your music, email Kady and Jessica at kmbell311@aol.com or jnbell311@aol.com