Originally published in ‘zine issue #40, 2009

Avsa What You Don’t Know is Frontier
(Southern Lord)
Another magazine’s review pegged Asva’s latest offering as “epic doom metal.” But What You Don’t Know is Frontier isn’t the Sabbath worship of The Obsessed nor the numbing drone of SunnO))). The record is a thickened aural tar pit, full of slow progression, a primordial congealing of instrumental tones. Monolith guitar chords are strummed once, then twice, then once again. Ominous keys surface briefly and then dive below, back into the pitch, as wah pedals shriek briefly and caustically. The press release reveals that mainman Stuart Dahlquist wrote the album during the one-year anniversary of his brother’s slaying, wanting to “hit an emotional chord” and embody “the light at the end of the tunnel.” The journey is beautifully and painfully slow, and Dahlquist’s mission is ultimately accomplished.
(by A.E.) ■

Balboa/Rosetta Project Mercury
(Level-Plane)
This split release features two bands with a chameleon-like, albeit cohesive, mix of predominantly atmospheric noise rock and what some might call “screamo,” particularly applicable in the case of Balboa. But none of it’s delivered with the kind of pretense and whiny angst you might expect from the latter tag. This record seems a lot more honest to me. Each band’s music is often spacey, swirly, and amorphous—in that dreamy, passive, surrendering oneself to the inexorable entropic oneness of the universe kind of way (i.e., judicious usage of reverb, delay, and a single-coil pickup)—yet the rhythm sections hold it all together rather well, thumping away in the background. While Balboa indulges in a momentary spasm of thrashcore, Rosetta is way heavier when they finally build up to it. The final climactic track, entitled “Project Mercury,” is a collaboration between the two acts that succeeds spectacularly in going absolutely nowhere.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Balzac Deep Blue: Chaos From Darkism
(Misfits)
It’s appropriate that this Japanese “horror punk” band is on the Misfits’ own label, as they couldn’t possibly more strongly resemble latter-day “Graves-era” Misfits with a slightly more metal bent and pretty horrendous vocals, offering absolutely nothing even remotely interesting (much less original) of their own. Really, this is essentially a Misfits tribute band, albeit a nicely recorded, well-marketed, and occasionally fun tribute band, but it really doesn’t merit any more consideration than that. Of interest only to those sad souls who for some reason can’t get enough of the third-rate material the Misfits were cranking out in the late ‘90s; otherwise, avoid. The accompanying nearly two-hour DVD is a good bargain for fans, no doubt, with a couple of videos and a reasonably well-made documentary of the band’s last U.S. tour.
(by R. Mason) ■

Biomechancial Cannibalized
(Earache)
Operatic opening. Blasting drums. High vocals descending into a br00tal roar and then back into the wailing. There’s a lot going on, right from the beginning of Cannibalized; the mix sounds fucking huge—ex-Dragonforce low-ender Adrian Lambert must be stoked at the idea of his playing being remotely audible. Opener “The Unseen” has parts that are all over the place, and if you like spastic tech-metal jams, then this is your dig. The title cut, however, alternates metal banshee wails with riff parts that are downright nü metal at points. The intro to “Predatory” sounds like Scott Stapp and Scott Weiland duetting over risingly tense guitar plucking. Then the pummel riff comes on. Rinse and repeat. Some riffs are catchy for the short time they’re presented, but then they disappear in favor of the next riff, and for every sweet riff, there’s five “meh” ones. The record has a lot going on, but methinks John K needs to 1) capitalize on his strengths (clean epic singing) and 2) avoid taking publicity stills where he’s dressed in a Hannibal Lecter/Slipknot getup.
(by A.E.) ■

Collapsar Integers
(Escape Artist)
What we have here is an attractive digipack presentation and a band deserving of it. My review of Lousiana mathmetalmeticians Collapsar’s first record (D.U. #34) expressed appreciation for their musicianship, but also the sense of weariness I felt from the constant time shifting that is the cornerstone of their jazz-informed style. It’s what they do, and they do it very well—and the fatigue I expressed is nothing more than the experience of having been challenged. Challenging is good. Collapsar is good. Now that that’s officially on the record, I can turn this shit off and put on some Barry Manilow.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

The Cotton Soeterboek Band Twisted
(Caf Fine)
Right out of the gate there’s a nice fat rock riff backed by a jazz organ, a clear sign these gents are in it to win it. Clearly, the mid-’70s are the sweet spot in the ears of The Cotton Soeterboek Band (who do not in fact hail from the American South as one might suspect, but Colorado). There are time-tested hooks and smoldering blues licks galore. Of course, it all sounds vaguely familiar—but isn’t that the raison d’être of the contemporary classic rock/southern rock stylist? Ultimately, I cannot recommend this record because the first song is far and away the strongest and the rest of it is sappy and way boring.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

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“I can say without risk of hyperbole that Impiety hopes you fucking die.”

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Dying Fetus War of Attrition
(Relapse)
Maryland’s Dying Fetus once more applies the formula that has won them worldwide acclaim in the death metal community. Their style is homage to Suffocation, appreciably bloated with triggered double-bass drum rolls and snare on-beat blasting, hoards of noodley-Natalie noodley-Natalie guitar riffs inbred to perfection, and the inevitable sweep arpeggios like decorative icing on a big hollow cake that conceals the decomposing body of a violated woman. Not a feeble withering creature like its name suggests, Dying Fetus insists its continued existence by delivering feats of well-above- average musicianship. If you’re a fan, surely you must own this album by now.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Evile Enter the Grave
(Earache)
Above all, U.K. up-and-comers Evile display a penchant for the thrash metal of classic bands like Exodus and Testament. They execute the style well enough. The competent production on this record was achieved by none other than Fleming Rasmussen of Metallica and Morbid Angel fame.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Heresi Psalm II-Infusco Ignis
(Hydra Head)
I had high expectations for this one after spying the pitch-black, Goya-esque quasi-mythological cover painting of a horrific morphological convergence of a wing, skull, and gluttonous gaping maw. It’s catchy melodic black metal like Hemlock, Watain, or Dissection. While powerfully performed, very well produced, and reasonably convincing, I find it underwhelming, taken on the whole, due to the sheer lack of originality. They take no chances and play it safe all the way.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

The Hidden Hand The Resurrection of Whiskey Foote
(Southern Lord)
Ah, yes … one of the umpteenth stoner/doom trios Scott “Wino” Weinrich has fronted. But any hesher blessed enough to hear the tuneage of past groups The Obsessed and Spirit Caravan know that Wino brings the soul along with his Sabbath worship, both in his vocals and his six-string slinging. “Purple Neon Dream” is a solid opener, albeit a misleading one, a tad bereft of the usual heaviness of Weinrich’s doing. “Someday Soon” kicks that notion right out the door as he and bassist/singer Bruce Falkinburg dip their instruments in molasses to trudge forth with a perfect balance of swing and sludge, adding a tasteful “Southern” sound as they detail the mythic doings of Whiskey Foote. Some moments are even a bit reminiscent of Goatsnake’s doom classic Flower of Disease, but never enough to make the record sound derived. Also of high praise are the song lengths—most of the nine tracks hover around the four-minute mark. Instead of wearing the listener’s ears in with riff-repeating monotony, Wino, Falkinburg and drummer Evan Tanner know exactly how to get in, get out, and merit another immediate listen to nearly every cut on the record. Damn shame these guys have split; the future for Wino remains bright, however, as he joins The Melvins’ Dale Crover, Neurosis’ Scott Kelly, and Sleep/Om’s Al Cisneros in Shrinebuilder.
(by A.E.) ■

Impiety Dominator
(Pulverised)
The mighty Impiety return once more to slash and slaughter with Slaytanic precision. Blasting forth from the smoldering death pits of Singapore, this elite and unabashedly hateful force expulses poisonous black vomit into the face of anyone foolhardy enough to dare stand in the way of an evil that’s triumphant and ever on the march. Beware: here’s no peace, nor sensitivity—on past records their lyrics have venerated historical mass butcherings of humanity. Yet, far from serving as the pulpit for a clan of mere racists, Impiety is an artistic invocation of violent misanthropy. Like an accursed mirror, they forcibly and relentlessly serve up for humankind a twisted reflection of its own horrifying capacity for murder and mayhem under the banner of whichever lies served the end. This record also includes a rapacious Sarcofagó cover that outpaces Impiety’s closest competitors in the Sarcofagó cover stakes by a solid 2 and 10 seconds, respectively. I can say without risk of hyperbole that Impiety hopes you fucking die.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Incarnated Pleasure of Consumption
(Selfmadegod)
Extremely harsh and concentrated guitar frequency reeking of Old Sweden—with crushing riffs to boot! Animalistic guttural vocals sound like a lion is devouring your head. Unstoppable grinding drums. Bizarre noize guitar solos. Total brutality. All the time. No one is safe. Not even the president. Poland’s Incarnated steamrolls over your fucking existence like the Hunter Killers in The Terminator!
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Lair Of The Minotaur War Metal Battle Master
(Southern Lord)
Chicago’s Lair Of The Minotaur’s third full-length offering to the gods of the Greeks is meaty and fleshy—a mythic display of teeth gnashing and blood drinking from a discombobulation of freshly cleaved human appendages—just as anyone who’s seen or heard them before should expect. This recording has all the saturated heaviness and signature gut-busting vocals, and once more the instrumental performances are spot on. They even mix up the beats a bit more on this one, while the doom metal moments that appeared on their debut have lapsed. Check this out if you want some non-derivative American death metal that is utterly traditional while simultaneously sounding atypical of the majority of the genre’s representatives.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Misery Index Traitors
(Relapse)
Pushing forward with their political ideals, Misery Index from Maryland have put out more of a death metal album this time ‘round (D.U. has always classed them as grindcore), and what an album it is. There’s fewer blast beats and ridiculously fast double-bass riffs on Traitors, but that just makes the fast songs that much faster when they do come and steamroll over your woefully uninformed face (read the lyrics, then). The band has become more expressive musically (as on “Thrown Into the Sun”), opting for more feeling over the slabs of deathgrind that you can’t stop, but they haven’t forgotten how to write slam riffs either, so don’t worry yourself. “Partisans of Grief” and “Occupation” are two examples that show that. As is always the case, the musicianship is top-shelf, and the production here is an improvement over Dissent, the last album. So what are you waiting for? Traitors is a fucking great record, so get off your duff and pick it up.
(by Editor) ■

Netherbird The Ghost Collector
(Pulverised)
Imagine the gothic theatre of a King Diamond opus. Sanguine aristocrats making merry at a secret and doubtless Satanic masked ball. An icy bell chimes, tolling the hour of a deceived virgin’s fate—you know the deal. Then, if you will, imagine a slick, modern Swedish melodic metal band with a meticulously polished production, prevalent-yet-tasteful keyboards, the occasional clean female vocal, burly death metal grunts à la old Amorphis, black metal hissing, whispers, and various bird sound effects. I expect there’s some kind of narrative going on, but the story remains unclear. Though “keyboards” and “clean female vocal” are typical code words people like myself look for when casually perusing reviews of records we won’t buy, I feel I should take an extra moment to add that this is well-played and actually quite listenable.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Passion The Fierce Urgency of Now
(Goodfellow)
Ah—another metalcore melodrama of fake angst realized through incessant screaming, thick production, and start-stop rhythms. I understand they are now defunct. Good for them. Damn, what a hater I can be.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Pro-Pain No End in Sight
(Regain)
It starts out just how one might have expected (hoped?) Pro-Pain would sound at this point in time—with their East Coast urban flavor undiluted and sporting major wood for the concussive rhythms that helped make Hatebreed a household brand. I was thinking, alright, this is solid shit, they’re keeping it real, it’s not bad. But then other songs came, and oh, sweet sodomized Jesus, how they suck! The problem is the repetition of (alleged) hooks featuring so-bad-it’s-surreal vocal experimentations that keep coming and coming much to my sheer terror. One song has this idiotic pop-punk chorus going on forever and another one—a full on power metal-style anthem—leaves you feeling like you just got kicked down a flight of stairs while strapped to 10 lbs. of shit in a 5 lb. bag. Are you wise to da game? And then, like the welcome return of an old friend, the bruising metalcore once again rears its ugly, meaty face. Pound for pound, that streetwise, slugging approach full of familiar clichés has always been their strong suit, and it might have made for a decent album if they hadn’t saw fit to work in so many awful parts to muck up the works.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Rudimentary Peni No More Pain
(Southern Lord)
The Peni are pillars of the anarcho-punk movement and therefore should bear some audibly significant sound. And yet, the first two songs are little more than one or two riffs repeated at a healthy midtempo ad nauseam with a tightly wounded throat uttering minimal lyrics like “I will you show fear in a handful of dust.” “Eyes of the Dead” more or less continues the pattern. “Grave Object” almost manages to break the monotony with a bit of feedback towards the beginning, but then settles back into that samey, steady chug. Their seemingly non-ironic cover of Pachbel’s “Canon in E” is indeed rudimentary, and could’ve been excised with little detriment as it progresses at the same tempo as the rest of the songs on the record, only with an added dose of sloppiness. The veterans’ playing sounds incredibly tired; perhaps there will be no more pain when a sense of urgency is injected at some point in their future releases.
(by A.E.) ■

Samothrace Life’s Trade
(20 Buck Spin)
In the post-Eyehategod sludge ghetto, any aspiring act of such narcotic persuasion joins the ranks of a bloated fraternity of undistinguishable plodders. A huge guitar sound is crucial, and Samothrace chooses a distortion with an agreeably grainy, slow, and chunky break-up, like gargling a gravel pit. Good so far. What next? Musical content. With some bands, typically more commercially viable ones steeped in bourgeois nostalgia for the ‘70s, it’s all about tripping on the good-time boogie out in the desert. With other comers, aping Burning Witch or Corrupted is du jour—and for others still, whiskey-sodden feedback and vague notions of Southernness come to bear—but for Samothrace, melancholic melodies and harmonies are the sweet spot, and they do an appreciable job invoking the somber. Conservative pacing is an understatement. Spare yet sprawling arrangements consisting typically of only one or two themes. Delicately woven guitar flourishes. If My Dying Bride were equipped with a precious handful of blues licks and living a reflective, threadbare existence on the windswept plains of the American Midwest, a Samothrace might you have.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Those Who Bring the Torture Tank Gasmask Ammo
(Pulverised)
These guys have a dumb name. Their album artwork is also dumb and so is this album title. The music is pretty decent, though, being a crushing blend of death metal and grindcore elements. Though it’s all put together well and up and running with a good head of steam, I can’t help feeling that they’re missing something. Something important. Maybe it’s the vacant concept or slop-job art direction that’s throwing me off, but probably it’s the whole picture, which ultimately leaves the distinct impression of a paint-by-numbers affair. Despite these complaints, I found myself enjoying this record more the second spin.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Slank Anthem for the Broken Hearted
(MRI Associated Labels)
What sounds like a totally lame American wuss-rock band is actually a totally lame Indonesian wuss-rock band. These self-styled slacker jocks got love for Allah (may his peace be upon you!), they’re sweet on their pretty girlfriends, and they like to get high every night. Coolness, dude! You should buy this record and pirate as many copies as your computer can handle, in keeping with Indonesian custom.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

SOS Adult Situations
(3:16 Productions)
SOS is pumping, groovy rock music from NYC. They sound like a good, honest club band without pretense or ridiculous posturing. No frills, nothing fancy, just solid rocking that isn’t derivative. You can’t go wrong with that.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Third Degree Punk Sugar
(Selfmadegod)
I avoided this record because of the cover art of a screaming little girl holding cotton candy. Then, when I was finally (reluctantly) opening the packaging I noticed it was released by Poland’s Selfmadegod Records. Ah ha! Methinks this might actually be good! Poles Third Degree deliver something like contemporary Euro-hardcore/grind, in which d-beats, occasional blasts, and churning mechanical-sounding riffs are minced and simmered in a postmodern stew with assorted root vegetables and discarded computer parts. If you like stuff like Counterblast, Sayyadina, Wolfbrigade, and most especially Diatribes-and-newer Napalm Death, you are the kind of decadent who would enjoy this record.
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Today Is The Day 1996 album + Supernova
(Supernova)
Since their inception, Today Is The Day have remained defiantly original, seamlessly juxtaposing the most chaotic elements of noise rock and grindcore while carving out their own specific, psychically damaged idiom to spite any kind of homogenized genre trapping. Truly menacing music is a real rarity, but Steve Austin knows how to evoke exactly that: when he spits out the lyrics from “Kai Piranha”—with its twisted, lumbering riffs and schizophrenic vocal phrasing—the vibe TITD create is assuredly one of authentic evil, easily more disturbing than, well, pretty much every grindcore band you can imagine all lumped together.

Despite frequently changing personnel from album to album, Austin’s supporting rhythm sections are consistently of the the highest order. On both the self-titled album and Supernova, as each track unravels and gradually threatens to derail completely into free-noise dirges, the insanely tight drums and bass always manage to keep the chaos contained, somehow. It’s too uncommon to hear a band so uniquely damaged (and damaging), driven by a truly sociopathic sense of “mission” and equipped with the proper tools to carry it out. When Austin screams “Kill the children and burn their souls/Strip them naked/Shoot to kill,” you’re hard-pressed to think that he’s just fucking around. These two early releases document the singular, batshit-crazy genius that is Today Is The Day, and both are as compelling as they are brutal and disturbing. The bonus tracks don’t deviate whatsoever from the TITD sound, and while they’re not quite up to the quality of the material released on the original albums, their inclusion certainly cements the fact that these re-releases are absolutely essential purchases.
(by R. Mason) ■

Vinyl Scrapyard
Documentary by Billups Allen
Billups Allen, previously of Generalissimo (see D.U. #17) and Darkest Hour back in the day, picks the brains of independent record store owners and clerks in this 30-minute documentary about the decline of such stores. The subjects of the interviews do all the talking and express all the views found in the piece, a DVD-R release. Entertaining, and you’ll find yourself nodding in approval or smiling at least once.
(by Editor) ■

Vixen Live and Learn
(Demolition)
Hey everybody, Vixen is still around. Apparently they’ve been off-again on-again since ’91. I have vague memories of a video on MTV circa ’88 or so—light pink leotards and tights, black lace gloves, ragged strips of silken fabric adorning various body parts, shocks of ungovernable platinum blonde hair (am I right?). Well, this album features some of the original gals teamed with a new vocalist. Vixen today delivers everything a nostalgic Vixen or Bon Jovi fan who came of age in the late ‘80s could possibly want—a well-played and well-produced rock record that delivers their tried-and-true message of love and heartbreak wrapped in a mature package that (much to their credit) doesn’t shy away from acknowledging the passing of time. Calling all cougars! Dust off your acid-washed mom jeans and that white leather jacket with the cowboy fringe; the girls are back in town!
(by Lenny Likas) ■

Wetnurse Invisible City
(Seventh Rule)
Calling New York City’s Wetnurse a band would mislead a reader. To understand them you must think in terms of boxing. You expect to see fighters, you expect punches, but instead you’re kicked in the face. By the referee. Wetnurse doesn’t act or sound like other bands, and that’s a refreshing change. My first exposure to Wetnurse was at D.C.’s Warehouse Next Door, September 2005. They seemed shy onstage, perhaps a little awkward. I was hooked as soon as they started playing. Lots of emotion, palm-muting, and original music, all without a smidgen of pretense. I gladly bought their self-titled CD, which brought me happily back to earlier days, with my hair down to my waist and a room full of thrash tapes.

One of my first impressions of Invisible City was that the production sounds almost exactly like the previous release. Vocalist Gene Fowler is moderately low in the mix, guitars are prominent and almost warmly distorted, and drummer Curran Reynolds sounds eerily similar to the last full-length. None of this is bad, mind you—it’s a great recording. Where Wetnurse’s self-titled CD boasted complicated palm-muting and spacing, Invisible City is more melodic and contains power chords reminiscent of early metal. I enjoyed the first CD so much I hoped for more of the same. Invisible City has a different sound. It isn’t afraid to move around in musical styles, going from faded stadium sounds to modern heavy and even acoustic. Yet Wetnurse is not a band that sounds like it’s saying, “Hey, look what styles we can do.” Wetnurse can be a modern update to older styles of music in a respectful and interesting way. The variety is one of Invisible City’s greatest strengths.

Wetnurse is a musician’s band. Look elsewhere for the tight pants and poppy Swedish metal jams. What you get instead is audible honesty, and freedom to get a sound across without living up to an image. The sounds have grown and diversified, though I sometimes yearn for the complexity that overflowed from Wetnurse’s first CD. Still, Invisible City is an excellent release from a band you don’t want to miss.
(by “American” Dave Kline) ■

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