Gather up the musty chaff and you’ll be smelt above the moon. So maybe baling the perishers of ’80s perisher-metal together seemed like a good idea to Dave Grohl. And many have been willing to uphold the fancy because Grohl’s such an amiable dunce, good for booboisie sidesplitters like: “[face it], the quiet/loud dynamic that’s dominated alternative radio for the last 14 years can be attributed to one and only one band, the Pixies . . . ”
But [face it] Grohl’s now only famous for being famous, and while he won’t do the decent thing and get out of our hair, that doesn’t mean his hosting of a hectoring half-wit’s hardcore punk tribute to Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring is worth charity. Probot thrashes along, festooned with many such charcoal smuts. Hey!—there’s Cronos from Venom, still stuck making grim and unmemorable noise! Yes, he was entertaining for Welcome to Hell, not because he raged but because it was like hearing Soupy Sales argue with White Fang. “I had to quit heavy metal because of illness,” Cronos should sing. “Everyone got sick of me.” Except Dave.
Grohl can grumble like Satan, too, just as terribly as the troll from Sepultura. If you think this harsh, it’s OK to call me a fool, because I don’t understand South American world music. Feel better?
“Shake Your Blood,” featuring Lemmy, is Probot’s most rock ‘n’ roll tune. But just when you’re wishing for an appearance by Fast Eddie Clarke or Phil Campbell or even Wurzel—it’s Grohl, instead. As an unintended practical joke, fair.
There is some entertainment value in Probot. The manufactured praise accompanying Grohl, supplied by a corps of pro fuglemen who lead and escort the illustrious on his vanity venture, is grand.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on April 27, 2004