Do you know Mallorca, the sunny island in the warm Mediterranean sea? A haven for cheap mass tourism and a modern Tortuga for the good ol’ booze-crazed party folk. And it’s also the questionable home of the Ballermann (for the Germans) or Magaluf (for you Brits reading this), seedy miles of artificial glitzy fun that spawned their very own gaudy pop stars. I kid you not.
The only thing that’s missing is probably a very own Alestorm Pirate Bar or something. A place to boost your moonshine-guzzling savvy up to that famed seventh rum. A tasty new opportunity for an endeavor grown stale or an early retirement home for marauders beyond their due date with nowhere else to go? Take your pick, I guess.
The RMR crew quite enjoyed Alestorm‘s early works such as Sunset on the Golden Age. Reasonably silly but still funny to a point. AND it contained a juicy acoustic add-on that runs on our music machine to this day.
But all sturdiness still wafting over from Captain Morgan’s Revenge evaporated once No Grave But The Sea rolled onto our shores. That one still had its moments, to the point that we decided to just ignore the dumb little ditty Fucked by an Anchor. But their Deluxe Edition for dogs really killed it, that’s just a plain money grab with a smirk.1) Well, at least that one still had its hooks and a few beer-swirling lines to sing along with. Because the 2020 Crystal Coconut thing truly landed on our wrong side with its rinse-and-repeat song structures, witless lyrics, and dick jokes. Even if it had a (very) few bright sides, too.
So, here we got Seventh Rum of a Seventh Rum roaring along on a mighty wave that will make Jack Sparrow go insane. The title suggests some connection to Iron Maiden, or – more likely – just a lack of creativity. Yet behold, a felt 95% of their stuff gallops ceaselessly about their watery soundscape. This stampeding around the wide oceans like a pirate quest to find Clint Eastwood on a lost island already starts with the first track Magellan’s Expedition.
And whilst the song is solid Alestorm fare, a desperate sense of ‘déjà-vu’ slowly sets in. In a way, all of the songs on Seventh Rum are cut from the same cloth former records were made of. In other words, the band – yet again – rehashed what was before into some new set of tracks and let ‘er roar. And that’s pretty much what already happened on Curse of the Crystal Coconut. So, nothing new to see here really.
And I guess, the band detected this as well. Because they genuinely tried to return to the musical glory of their early days. And thus, to my surprise, a few pretty neat riffs and spacey solos made their appearance. So, let me point out Máté Bodor yet again. Same as on the former record, he managed to dazzle us with some trve guitar geekery. Stuff that genuine Folk Metal could thrive on. Could. Because if the rest won’t follow, the guitarist can work his fingers to a bloody pulp. It just won’t signify.
So, in all that worn-out mass of rehashed grime, the lyrics kinda made a stand, too. Usually, RMR here won’t pay too much attention to words. Most metal bands are notoriously bad at them. Besides, have you ever tried to understand Death Metal growls without a cheat sheet? I for sure couldn’t. Unfortunately for our silly bones here, Bowes‘ utterings are understandable – and only too well.
“Yo, ho! Stick a cannonball up your cunt, yo, ho, put your dick in a blender...“ is the latest witless concoction emerging from our boy’s pea-brained idea of metal bullshit bingo. Bowes here is as funny as the excuses Boris Johnson found after his tea parties ran out of fashion. But hey, seems to work for the inebriated masses that crave entertainment during hot summer festivals. Y’know, the folks that won’t stop at the Seventh Rum only. The band’s still getting headlined after all.
Oh, and check out the video for Cannonball below – the one with the dick in the blender – that we added for sports. I really admired this blockhead from the Ministry of Political Correctness who blurred fiend Christopher flippin’ the finger but let the dumbest texts run rampant instead. To counter that, they slapped a big fat parental advisory sign on the banner. Can’t have that corruption of minors, now, can we?
Seventh Rum of a Seventh Rum ended up being the mother of all regurgitated buffooneries the RMR deck crew had to suffer through to date. And with all those blatantly injected pop elements, Alestorm‘s present performance gave parodying trespassers like Feuerschwanz a much better metallic shine2) than this band was ever able to. And that’s a feat one needs to achieve first.
This is a record devoid of fresh ideas that desperately seeks to dredge up the spoils of the past for further glory. An effort to squeeze that particular lemon until no drop is left. Yet the result is bland, boring, and – indeed listless. A continuation of the famed crystal coconut with no horizon in sight and the compass utterly lost.
So, in the end, perhaps Alestorm should retire to that bar on the tourist beat on Mallorca. Beach, booze, and concerts galore. They’d fit right in with that lot of bedraggled wannabe superstars past their due date that never made it beyond garishly colored shirts, fake gold watches, and way too much alcohol. And once that happens, there will be no stopping at the Seventh Rum. They can keep going until the grog runs out with nobody to complain about it. That would be a pirate’s fiddler’s green better than Davy Jones’ locker. Right, Alestorm?