One of the decade's more puzzling music stories is how System of A Down, with it's idiosyncratic style and politically charged lyrics, became a top-selling band.
Questions, questions, more questions - and few answers: Rarely has a band inspired as many unsolvable head-scratches as the one-of-a-kind System of a Down.
For starters: How in the world did something so bizarre and brilliantly antagonistic become so immensely popular? How did it become the new giant of heavy rock?
It helps to start with some standard-issue queries, ones greener journalists still ask, the sort initially put forth a decade ago when L.A.- based System rose from the ashes of an ordinary metal band called Soil, the first venture to pair polar-opposite creative forces Serj Tankian (37, vocals and lyrics, primarily) and Daron Malakian (29, guitars and music, primarily).
Obvious Question No. 1: What in the world is a System of a Down?
Best answer: You decide.
"It means different things to different people," Tankian has said. "That's the beauty of it." For the record, the name's genesis started with a poem by Malakian, titled "Victims of a Down." "System" was substituted because it seemed stronger. "Everything is a system," Malakian has said.
Obvious Question No. 2: How do you describe, System's music, which resists definition?
Every rock writer has tried to reduce its complex amalgamation of art-rock, surreal political abrasiveness, Arabian exoticism, thrashy metal and Frank Zappa absurdism to simple terms. Yet, as often occurs with groundbreaking sounds, no one description has gotten it entirely right.
Most pundits give up and dub the group a genre unto itself. The more daring devise clever summations heavy on references that make critics chuckle, like this stab from the June edition of Blender:
"Imagine the 'mamma mia' section of Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' set to a Bulgarian wedding dance as played by Slayer and punctuated with a gaggle of vocal personal ads ranging from TV pitchmen to agitprop hucksters to death-metal growlers to muezzin calling the faithful to prayer - basically, Gilbert and Sullivan at Ozzfest." I'd add: As fronted by a bouncing and wailing guy who looks like Rasputin on leave from a stint with Oingo Boingo.
I asked Tankian if he's found an apt description. He paraphrased the oft-quoted quip: "Talking about music is like dancing about architecture."
Then there are some seemingly straightforward questions that remain unanswered even at this late point, with the outfit having issued four monster albums (2001's "Toxicity" racked up sales of 3.5 million) and about to embark on a stateside tour Thursday in Long Beach while waiting for the November arrival of the second half ("Hypnotize") of a split-apart double-album that began with May's "Mezmerize," which debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard album charts.
The first imponderable: Why must every piece about System of a Down mention that the band members are of Armenian descent?
That's a puzzler even a cursory glance at recent System clippings proves true, one a reader reiterated to me after I pointed out the quartet's shared heritage in a review.
To listen to System's albums, and consider its roots, it would seem crucial to note. Three of members of the quartet - Tankian, Malakian and bassist Shavo Odadjian - attended the same private Armenian high school in Hollywood. (Drummer John Dolmayan joined the group in 1996.) Not surprisingly, System's music, and especially Tankian's maniacal vocal style, is often laced with striking, idiosyncraticstrains each member was raised with at home.
Further reason to play up the Armenian angle: on its self-titled, 1998 debut, System finished with a song, "P.L.U.C.K. (Politically Lying, Unholy, Cowardly Killers)," that condemned the Ottoman Turks of 1915-23 for the ethnic cleansing of Armenians, which killed 1.5 million, and the Turks of today for refusing to acknowledge the atrocity occurred. The band, whose grandfathers were survivors of the genocide and fled to Iraq and elsewhere, also plays an annual L.A.-area show every April 24 (called "Souls") commemorating and aiming to boost awareness of the bloodshed.
Considering all of that, how can one not point out that these guys are Armenian? It's too intrinsic, isn't it?
"Well, yes and no," Tankian told me by phone from Rotterdam, the Netherlands, where System was midway through a European tour. "The problem we've had with articles from the beginning is that we just don't like being put in a box. At first they called us an Armenian rock band. Then they called us a political band, which some people still call us. We're always finding more adjectives that put us in a box, and anytime that happens, we naturally rebel against it.
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"I think some people are probably tired of hearing about us being Armenian. You know, Black Sabbath was an amazing band, but people didn't focus on them being English the whole time. The Beatles had lots of political and social commentary in their songs, but no one really called them a political band."
Yes, but people eventually did brand John Lennon a political artist, at least partly. Likewise, though Malakian now contributes as many scathing indictments to System's lyrics as his goateed, curly-haired partner in barbed lunacy, it's Tankian who represents the activist face of the group. He is both the mouthpiece of its material and co-founder of the protest organization Axis of Justice with friend Tom Morello, formerly of Rage Against the Machine, now with Audioslave.
Sometimes the invective in System's songs is blatant, as in "Sad Statue," about generational apathy, or "B.Y.O.B.," which wonders "why do they always send the poor" to fight wars; other times it's over-the- top and screwy, as is the case with the phallic, quasi-operatic "Cigaro," in which bragging comparisons of male anatomy becomes a starting point for globally aggressive stratagems. Regardless whether the focus is outwardly social ("Prison," the new "Violent Pornography") or inwardly anguished (the demented, suicidal "Chop Suey!"), the foursome remains best known as outspoken critics and caricaturists in an era saturated with meaningless pop and largely devoid of resolute political outcry, apart from token anti-war tunes.
But Tankian balks at the thought that System is spearheading a fresh infusion of spiked diatribes into rock. "We do have a lot of political and social stuff in our songs," he says, "but there's just as much humorous stuff and personal narrative as well."
As for drawing attention to the Armenian genocide: "I wish (it) was something that we wouldn't have to talk about. It would be great if politically things were resolved and we wouldn't have to talk about it again. Nobody really wants to. But it's a terrible tragedy and it continues to affect us. It is a part of who we are, but it doesn't fully define our music."
So if terms like "art-metal" and "Armenian rock" don't paint a full portrait of System, how would the band prefer to be described?
"How about nothing?" Tankian responded, laughing, perhaps realizing that won't happen. "How about just our name? I'd rather not do interviews. Just have journalists smoke one and enjoy the music and write whatever they want. Then you're dealing with the actual stimulus and subject matter, not the afterthought or the mental breakdown of it."
Which brings us back to that perplexing afterthought no one, either in the group or merely observing it, can figure out.
The second imponderable: How did an act as strange as System of a Down get to be so unbelievably popular?
"Man, I couldn't tell you that," Malakian told Blender recently. "I mean, four Armenian guys? Who do you market that to? And our sound like 'B.Y.O.B.' - that'sa single?"
Yet it is, dominating modern-rock outlets like KROQ/106.7 FM and causing fervor among fans like nothing since the dawn of grunge.
Tankian can't explain System's success, either, though "one thing I can say is our music is very honest. That might strike a chord with some people."
The band's ascendancy seems to rest on two resonant factors: 1) Its music defies categorization at a time when few others are pushing boundaries, thus appealing to people looking for something different; and 2) it gets at the heart of what many people, young and older, are feeling during times of war abroad and political acrimony at home. System ponders difficult issues that can't be resolved in four-minute songs; it raises questions but doesn't offer answers.
Thus, it inspires listeners to think for themselves. "That's how it should be," Tankian says.
Of course - in a utopian music biz where artistic pursuit trumps commercial viability. The real question, though, is whether System's breakthrough will cause a shift toward increased creative freedom within the industry. Will other acts follow its revolutionary lead? Will labels foster and promote it?
Tankian isn't so hopeful. "I think there's a dichotomy at play - industry vs. art. And the industry is actually worse off now than it used to be, in terms of conglomerations having maximum control and fewer major labels all merging and cutting staff. There's less room for artistic development in the music industry today than there was 10 years ago - which was less than there was 20 years ago, which was less than there was 30 years ago.
"So the industry is not something to look at. Bands just have to do their thing, create the music that comes from their heart and somehow go directly to the public with it. It's never been the easy way of doing it. But that's the only way."
In a roundabout fashion, that's exactly what System has done, by fomenting a grass-roots network of fans in Southern California while striking up a relationship with producer Rick Rubin, who has co-produced all of System's albums for his American Recordings imprint. If nothing else, System stands as proof that flukes can inexplicably work.
But flukes are just that - flukes.
"Yeah," Tankian says, "but it's time for more flukes."
"Belief System: The members of System of a Down believe it is the duty of bands to create music that comes from the heart.
By Ben Wener of The Orange County Register
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