Ancst have put in a tremendous amount of work since assuming the metal mantle. Birthed in Berlin and born bearing the badge of Angst back in 2011, these Germans have done much more than change their name since erupting into existence under the new moniker in 2012. Six splits, seven EPs, and one excellent full-length have reared their livid heads along the way. And the beast only continues to grow, both in presence and power. There’s more Ancst and more to Ancst with each new offering, and Ghosts of the Timeless Void is no exception. A violent bastard of black metal and hardcore, the trve identity at the core of Ancst is still very much a force in the making, but one thing is certain by this point: This is some hateful shit, yo.

A brief sample from the 2017 sci-fi thriller Life re-illustrates this point and heralds the onslaught of Ghosts, providing the first evidence of accumulated wisdom by lending opener “Republic of Hatred” a little spoken-word flare without chaining a 1:28 albatross to anything à la Furnace’s “Away from Atrophy.” The same effect is employed with similar succinctness later on “Revelation and Deformity,” further implying a conscious decision to trim the fat this time around. With each track typically doing its thing for 3-4 minutes, this mission is also accomplished within the actual music itself, the songs maintaining a lively sense of brevity that keeps everything pummeling onward without being bogged down by bloat. D-beat explosions interspersed amongst blackened tremolo assaults and crusty rhythms all but fly by for 42 minutes, and not a single moment is wasted. Vocalist Tom’s wrathful hardcore bellowing navigates the high-octane environment of Ghosts superbly, his scathing damnations of society flowing along the instrumental rapids so smoothly that one might think that the vocals were spawned by the music itself, instead of emitted from a hateful human. This is Ancst being exactly what they want to be and doing an excellent job at it.

While the band are certainly coming into a sound of their own, Ghosts whispers faint warnings of a band potentially coming too much into their own sound. The globally revered Mark Z has drawn comparisons of Ancst to an angrier, grittier version of countrymen King Apathy in the past, and though this is a fair point of comparison when trying to describe the music of Ancst, the German metal mongers are also showing potential signs of Gelotte-Adler Syndrome, a condition in which a bands style of riffing becomes so distinctly unique to itself that the riffs become interchangeable and almost inconsequential. By and large the songs on Ghost are not identical, but fans of earlier works might find themselves inadvertently spitting out lyrics from the previous material as fleeting moments such as the breakdown in “Shackles of Decency” hearken almost too loudly to previous sonic conquests. However, the ghosts of Ancst’s past ultimately strengthen Ghosts of the Timeless Void with their ephemeral presence, serving more as loose blueprints to branch out from than rigid templates to be copied note for note.

While much of the songwriting here follows in the same blackened, punk-minded suit of previous outings, the band also takes a few exploratory chances that really pay off. For example, “Concrete Veins” momentarily plunges into relatively unexplored calm depths, briefly flirting with a dark and gorgeous clean guitar tone to effectively amplify a subsequent detonation. The real jewel here, though, is “Dysthymia.” Where the majority of Ghosts is full-throttle from 00:01 on, the album’s finale gathers its power more gradually, drawing its strength from an eery melody that would have been right at home at the end of Ghost Bath‘s Moonlover, of all places. It is largely Ancst’s ability to lace their militant musical misanthropy with touches of more delicate emotions such as fear and despair that allows them to pummel onward without seeming robotic and monotonous, and this further exploration of that outlet certainly hints at exciting possibilities for things to come.

In the end, Ghosts of the Timeless Void is a fine representation of Ancst, circa now. Encapsulating their steadfast spirit perfectly, Ghosts showcases a band that is at once mastering their craft and continuing to experiment with the sonic weaponry at their disposal. The album covers old ground without dully taking up permanent residence in the past, as well as explores a few new trails without ever losing itself entirely, and if the band can successfully maintain this balance of exploring and perfecting their own sound for future releases, the fabled lands of 4.0 and beyond will certainly be well within their grasp.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Lifeforce Records
Websites: angstnoise.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/angstnoise
Releases Worldwide: March 2nd, 2018

The post Ancst – Ghosts of the Timeless Void Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

One of the most rewarding opportunities afforded by the illustrious Angry Metal Promo Bin is its infinite plethora of unknown offerings, hitherto undiscovered caches of metal possibilities. Whittling down this inconceivable mass of band names and album titles into something manageable is a thing impossible, but a few tried and trve tricks have turned out to typically treat me terrifically. First off, mononym monikers jump to the top. Motherslug, Hobosexual, and Pillorian all know what’s up. Next, intriguing album titles get first dibs. Terraforming, Sidereal Light : Volume One, Lamentations of the Chaos Omega… I know, I know, books and covers and all that, but I strive for purpose in my madness and so far, the system works. I mean, just look at those name drops. Feeling engaged, yet? Good, hold on to that. Depending on how sludgy you like your black metal and how stocked up on Adderall you are, this might be the last time Nest‘s debut Metempsychosis is able to have that effect on you.

Now that your eyes have been properly de-wooled, it’s only right that I further twist the knife and reveal that Nest sound nothing like anything I listed. In actuality, these Kentuckians resemble something closer to the bastard offspring of Satanic Warmaster and Dead is Dead, taking traditional black metal stylings (as opposed to “weeny atmospheric emo-black”) and dragging them through deep, dark sludge. At times the music is a seething maelstrom of trve, grim malice, while other moments find the listener slowly drowning in thick, Neuros-ish mud. Nest do a fine job at summoning sounds from the aural shadows in which they dwell, and it should be noted that the overall sound and performance of the duo gets the coveted Seal ov Muppet Approval®. Skinsman/screamsman Corey Stringer’s black metal shrieks and screeches compliment Kyle Keener’s creations quite well, and on paper Metempsychosis seems like another win for the system.

It’s true that Nest are a more than capable lot who make good-sounding metal, but an album cannot live on sound alone. To really thrive, an album needs direction and focus, a sense of purpose in each musical moment, and this is where Metempsychosis sets a Sir Mix-a-Lot trap: the band sounds great, BUT(T) the album itself is often rather unengaging, its songs suffering from a tendency to wander aimlessly for just a little too long in between its more rewarding passages. This unfortunate phenomenon occurs most frequently in the strange, sludgier sections of Metempsychosis, such as those found in “Life’s Grief” or “Jewel of Iniquity,” where some highly enjoyable Fistula-esque dementia is overtaken by psych-doom droning that absolutely does not care about your attention span. For every step forward that Metempsychosis takes, it spends far too much time gathering its breath and admiring the scenery before it resumes marching onward, prolonging and weakening what should otherwise be an exciting journey.



The fact that this particular journey is not a particularly long one only makes its stale points that much more frustrating. Thirty-three minutes broken up into nine tracks looks as good on paper as everything else here, but both thirty second throwaway bookends make that math a little deceptive for one, and stretching the final proper track “Life’s Grief” into a ten minute affair certainly does the adventure’s climax little good. I’m all for using musical space to breathe or else build tension and gather strength, but timing is a key to metal glory that I just don’t feel like Nest have found quite yet. Considering the able performance of both artists and the conceptual ambition evident in the thematic flow of the album, it’s a shame that a colorful albatross came from the Nest, instead of the ebony eagle of sludge metal that I suspect this band is capable of spawning in the future. Where this is only the bands first full-length, however, it’s entirely possible that the second time’ll be the charm. For now, I’ll opt for hesitant optimism and keep my fingers crossed.

By all means, don’t arbitrarily pass this one over for its less than glowing review and subsequent score. This is coming from someone who awarded metal’s highest honor to a funeral doom band, though, so consider yourself good and warned when I tell you that the album drags. Nest create a lot of cool sounds, and they do so often enough that I’ll probably revisit this a time or two, but I can’t in good conscience consider Metempsychosis to be a great album when it feels so tedious to endure. Here’s to hoping that next Nest is best Nest.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 4-7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Sludgelord Records
Websites: nestdoom.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/nestlexington
Releases Worldwide: March 2nd, 2018

The post Nest – Metempsychosis Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

When it comes to listing French metal bands, a few specific acts tend to leapfrog their way to the top of the list. Il y a Alcest, le Gojira, le Deathspell Omega, et autres choses de ce genre. Less globally powerful yet closer to my heartsack are acts such as Hacride and Eryn Non Dae., as well as the recently discovered Bind Torture Kill. If I have a point, I suppose it’s vive la France. Regardless, Eryn Non Dae.‘s follow-up to 2012’s Meliora is something I’d long dreamt of, and thanks to France and the promo bin I – with humble objectivity and tact – get to demonstrate to you bitches once again why Muppet taste is best taste. Spoiler alert: this album is fucking glorious.

Before we wander too much farther into further Francophilia, a quick reassurance of objective integrity: I’m, like, totally objective yo. I didn’t snag Abandon of the Self simply because I knew that it was likely to be good, but more importantly because many of you cretins are likely to be woefully unfamiliar with END.; proselytizing the lesser gods of the underground has long been my greatest joy in life, and I cherish being granted the honor and privilege of doing so on the scale that this site affords. I take the task quite seriously, since scoring without objectivity rarely does bands or readers any good. I’m admittedly about to pile praise on a band I’ve previously professed to love, but it should be stressed that this review comes from the ears rather than the heart. Well a little from the heart, but let’s talk about the fuckin music already.

Abandon of the Self is trvly a multifaceted gem, shining just as brightly in its own sinister ambient darkness as it does in its moments of fiery, furious mayhem. Intertwining chaos and calm is hardly unheard of by now, but rarely have I heard an album utilize aforementioned dichotomy to the measure of successful effect that END. have attained on their 3rd full-length endeavor. Transitions between opposing sonic realms are handled with all the patience necessary for said tactic to really pay off, and by Jørn does it ever pay off here. By the time “Omni” explodes, you don’t just know it’s going to happen, you need it to happen, it’s the only thing that makes sense and life will surely be meaningless without it. Matthieu Nogue’s vocals fit into the picture more like a bone in a finger than a hand in a glove, gracefully gliding between pensive, pessimistic poetry and the from-the-guts hardcore bellowing of Thränenkind-era King Apathy to function as an organic extension of the instrumentation, rising and falling deftly as one with the same. Knowing when to tease and when to please is crucial to avoid dragging out such suspense, instilling passages into musical blue balls, and END. are here to satisfy.

Perhaps even more satisfying than what END. create with their sonic palette is the array of sounds itself. Placid darkness is painted with master artistry by Franck Quintin and Yann Servanin, immersing the listener in eerily beautiful clouds of vibrant ambience awash in dusky post-metal tones. When things are set ablaze and the fog becomes smoke, the listener is treated to blissful, incendiary asphyxiation in a harsh haze of blackened heaviness. A trvly stifling wall of sound is constructed when the going gets heavy, but the carefully crafted contributions of the rhythm section – namely Julien Rufié and Mickael André on drums and bass, respectively – are never silenced or overshadowed in the mix. The fact that their presence can be detected at all amidst the maelstrom in the middle of “Fragment” testifies to the sound mindedness of Abandon‘s mixing mentality, but that they can be heard so clearly while doing more than merely keeping the time is evidence of a band that understands the importance of crafting every inch of an album with attention to detail from the ground up.

While I’m not surprised that it turned out to be an excellent album, I must admit that even I didn’t foresee Abandon being this exceptional. If Tool were permanently furious and colored their creations in Ulcerate cacophony and ROSK-y tranquility instead of actually sounding like Tool, Abandon of the Self is easily on par with what you’d be left with, and with that I am vindicated. Selfish and wrong I may or may not sometimes be, but this time I was right – I swear I’m right! – and I knew it all along.

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 8-9 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Debemur Morti Productions
Websites: erynnondae.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/erynnondae
Releases Worldwide: March 9th, 2018

The post Eryn Non Dae. – Abandon of the Self Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

I don’t know how it happened, but there is no denying that atmospheric black metal has become relatively fucking huge. Stemming from a genre once staunchly rooted in its own obscurity, the freak mutation of black metal has far surpassed existing as a niche within a niche as more bands strive to be the next Agalloch. Even against an infinite wall of ebony imitation, Drudkh have managed to distinguish themselves as forerunners of the genre and, like any successful band, divide their fan base along the way. While Blood in Our Wells set much of the underground on fire in a vicious outburst steeped in Ukrainian heritage, Handful of Stars got all boat-abusive and introduced an ethereal shoe-gaze element to the arsenal, sowing seeds of dissent amongst their audience and rendering each subsequent release a guessing game as to what the band might be doing next. This, of course, leads us to today’s question: Drudkh, where’s my car?

That’s probably not exactly what I meant, but to be fair I’m not exactly Sensible Metal Guy. Regardless, They Often See Dreams About the Spring is the bands 11th full-length, to say nothing of the splits and compilation appearances they’ve made along the way, and surprise, surprise: it sounds like Drudkh. For the entirety of its 5 tracks, Dreams is a return to the obsidian cacophony of Blood in Our Wells, 43 minutes of quality black metal that claws unrelentingly at the listeners face without so much as a pause to gasp for air. Fans hoping for another sonic glimpse of the Ukrainians’ feet may need to shuffle back to Stars to avoid cutting short furrows of dismay along their brows, but those who have been anxiously awaiting another frostbitten blast of undiluted fury: this one’s for you.

Dreams continues the loud march back home that A Furrow Cut Short signaled, the guitars alternating between grim tremolo barrages and more anthemic, battle-ready fare with the amps set to 11 for all but thirty seconds or so out of the whole album. Bassist Kretchet continues a proud tradition of cutting through the mix with thick, bouncy lines that provide the songs with a writhing, serpentine spinal column. Vlad, in particular, seems out to prove that Drudkh are still angry metal guys, pummeling away at the drum kit as though it may be responsible for the ancestral woes that the band has long lamented. Complimented perfectly by Thurios’s signature vicious shrieks – seriously, dude straight up sounds like Satan — the album is exactly what those left feeling betrayed by Drudkh‘s recent forays into postal territories have been dreaming ov, a blackened tour-de-force recalling all the wrathful triumph of previous conquests.

Though the overall sound is sure to please those hoping for a return to sheer, unbridled aggression, the catch here is that Dreams rewards those purist prayers with exactly what they wished for, to a T and possibly to a fault. Enjoyable and well executed though they are, each of the songs here would be just as at home on any of the bands earlier works, further continuing the Drudkh legacy but pushing zero boundaries. I particularly enjoy the sonic storm of “Vechirniy Smerk Okutuye Kimnaty,” yet I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit that I do so because it sounds exactly like Drudkh. Furthermore, the guys may have ditched the shoe-gaze aspect, but they’ve also attended zero Fat Trimming 101 classes between now and Furrow, and the music of Dreams somewhat suffers from this absence of education. Songs like “U Dakhiv Irzhavim Kolossyu” follow the same heavy footsteps as Furrow, at times reveling in their own chaos for a bit too long and threatening redundancy as a result. I can’t imagine any Drudkh fan having any major complaints regarding Dreams, and yet I’d be doing y’all a major disservice if I didn’t acknowledge how damn repetitive the songwriting can get. This is a great atmospheric black metal album, but perfect it is not.

All in all, Dreams is yet another solid outing by the quartet, a testament to the fact that there are rules to black metal greatness, and Drudkh abides. Ultimately, your level of enjoyment will depend on how much you already loved the lads in the first place. If the genre at large or the band, in particular, aren’t your thing, you’ve wasted your time on this earth review. As to those who have spent many a night longing for the Drudkh of old: sleep my friend, and you will see that Dreams is that reality. Welcome home, now, leave me alone.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Season of Mist
Websites: drudkh.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/drudkh.official
Releases Worldwide: March 9th, 2018

The post Drudkh – They Often See Dreams About the Spring Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

Remember Dodecahedron, oooh and how a certain timeless scribe-god lauded their last effort as being worthy of emulation? Yeah, I ‘member, and I also ‘member thinking the lad a tad light in the heartbox when he confessed to its ability to bring him to actual physical discomfort. “That’s not a thing!” says I, omitting a slanderous phrase or six from this recollection for the sake of the children¹. Dialing up the reverb and deliberately hitting “wrong” notes can establish a malevolent aesthetic effectively enough, yet I’ve never encountered music genuinely able to instill honest-to-God fear in me through sound alone. Well, “had” never. That Dodecahedron would eventually amass a following of sonic acolytes was never contested, but I can honestly say that nothing has ever, frankly, fucked-me-right-up, the way that my most recent Angry Metal Discovery has. With hands still trembling in fear, I will now do what I can to describe the horrors that Pittsburgh’s Slaves BC have inflicted upon me with their latest offering, Lo, and I Am Burning.

If you’ve assumed by now that Slaves sound similar to Dodecahedron, congratulations! Also, don’t do that, you ass. Dodecahedron is a fair enough comparison, but Slaves BC blend such repulsively tumultuous material with the more straightforward stylings and emotional mindset of Anagnorisis, then further enhance this chaos with the droning, dissonant mindfuckery of Plebeian Grandstand, creating something dark and downright disturbing. Not content to merely sound creepy, Lo is an introspective and almost invasively personal journey through the narrator’s past, apparently exploring a history intrinsically rooted in familial faith via shrieks that lie somewhere between black metal and Converge and winding up in some seriously dark places along the way. Whether or not the listener shares the band’s faith is irrelevant, the sincere and sincerely violent performance of “Honor Thy Father and Mother” captures the harrowing inner turmoil of “I am a failure/ I am not a man/ I will never be loved/ I will never find grace” to a nondenominational T. Lo is a terrifying thing of twisted family ties, spiritual sickness and crippling cognitive dissonance, and it fucking sounds like it.

Perhaps most unsettling about the palpable rage and anguish of such sacraments as “We are All God’s Fault” and “Lightbearer” is the organic manner in which each of Lo’s nine tracks meld into each other, so effectively in fact that I frequently missed them during early spins. This is more than a collection of cool songs; Lo is not just an album but an album—a sonic rendering of emotions that tell a story from beginning to end, one which can be divided into clear chapters and yet isn’t necessarily meant to be broken up at all. Constantly leaping from one realm of discord to another is the key here, and indeed the songs shift so frequently that a 30-second sampling of any given track will likely tear the listener through atonal black metal fuzz, feedback-laden sludge and ripping grind fury before one can process that aforementioned blackly eclectic spasm was but one passage within one single song. Lo, and I Am Burning is every bit as frantic as its name implies, and the spectacular manner in which this discordant collection of disparate sounds is able to coexist and function as a whole is nothing short of miraculous.

I know you impatient bastards are unable to wait for 750 words to see whatever number we Angry Metal Wordslingers attribute to our prose, which means you know that Lo is not an immaculate conception… just real damn close. Heartfelt and heart-stopping though it is, the album occasionally stumbles on its own hectic footing, sometimes lurking in the shadows of a particular riff or chord for just a touch too long to feel fair. Thankfully, this slight blemish mars things only once or twice, namely in “Lo” and by proxy within its continuation into “We are All God’s Fault.” Where 99.666% of the album is some of the most sincere and engaging metal I’ve heard to date, the flaw is minor, but it exists nonetheless. Also, there’s no cowbell to speak of, so frankly my hands are tied here.

Lo, and I Am Burning is a dark and troubling gem, a hoard of inner demons hurtling by, unleashed with so much honesty and trvth as to render the petrifying procession beautiful. Regardless of religious beliefs, I would urge all ye faithful to dissonant metal to make a pilgrimage to this album, as this is trvly faith-affirming stuff. Hear me, I beg.

Rating: 4.5/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: The Fear and the Void Recordings
Websites: slavesbc.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/slavesbc
Releases Worldwide: March 16th, 2018

The post Slaves BC – Lo, and I Am Burning Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

Oh, departures. Not traditionally a wildly anticipated experience, and yet to know someone is to invariably set the stage for a future farewell; all roads end in goodbye, whether spoken aloud, thought silently to oneself, or else whispered in the dark before an audience of no one. Some goodbyes sing of poignant possibility, others give voice to the shape of grief to come. But the declaration of egress I now deliver unto you, my children, sounds… waaay more fuckin’ bleak than I had intended to, yo, good Jørn. In a nutshell, what I mean is that RÛR‘s self-titled triumph is the last black metal review I intend to write for a while and it’s as befitting the occasion as they come. Before I cast thee to the wolves of prog, dad-metal and Swordborn, let’s forego the “why’s” and the weeping, take my hand and let’s walk through ebony gates of trvth and despair together just one more time.

Those of you capable of making me proud are probably puzzling over the presence of a previous year’s provision in the present post. This is due to justice occasionally prevailing: dropping digitally during November of last year, multi-instrumentalist C.L.’s eponymous, self-released work as RÛR was eventually picked up for a physical run by Northern Silence Productions, to include an additional track not appearing on the original release. Further defying the norm, the additional track is really, really enjoyable, fitting in with the previous material just as though it had always been there. This is crucial, as I’ve been fondly familiar with the album since its initial release and had particularly admired the cohesive nature of its original form. RÛR sounds like a God’s eye view of your favorite mythological army of choice getting its shit kicked in, a panoramic score to a battle that cannot be won. There is an air of bittersweet triumph throughout its (now) 45 minutes that is as delicate as it is crushing, to hear it maintained and expounded upon in what some might look at as a bonus track is refreshing, indeed, and it speaks wonders to C.L.’s creative abilities.

Indeed, this is one of those rare times when the word ‘epic’ won’t get one slapped hall-less. RÛR is very much an epic thing of blackness, applying the anthemic atmospheres of Caladan Brood to the darkly celestial stylings of Crow Black Sky or Mare Cognitum and creating something trvly fvcking hvge as a resvlt. Tremolo picking punctuated by precise and pummeling percussion push each track further into battle while a coldly efficient lo-fi mix keeps things grim, and expert application of ambiance to the fray lends RÛR a surreal, other-worldly feel of marching victoriously toward certain doom. With the shortest track clocking in at 8 minutes, the chapters to this story are lengthy, but the impact of the content is such that fans are hardly likely to notice the run-times. That said, this album does everything that atmospheric black metal is expected to — really well, I must add — but if the genre hasn’t claimed you yet, it’s not likely to kidnap you here.

That said, those as addicted to atmoblack as I am will find themselves at that sweet spot just shy of an overdose should they revel in RÛR and ride it out to the end. 8-15(!) minutes per track is a lot to ask of Generation Now, but the songs need that time to properly construct and implement their sonic weaponry, and moreover, they utilize that time efficiently. “II” may be over ten minutes in duration, yet the pictures it paints in my mind move so quickly and vividly that the time elapsed during each listen is utterly inconsequential, hardly a fault. Hallucinations will vary from user to user, but the result of mixing the atmospheric methods of space metal with the mournfully triumphant energy of Winterfylleth is sure to please junkies of the genre across all its shades ov black. All that you love has been carried away and taken somewhere just a little bit darker than before, and that place is RÛR.

As I say my goodbye to the blackness, for now, I find comfort in knowing that black metal is still alive, still growing, and in good hands. Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death metal and metalcore with my sable stable behind me, I find solace in knowing that I left you all with one last, glorious piece of blackened glory. You know, right before I abandon you and shit gets weird. See ya in the metalcore!

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Northern Silence Productions
Websites: rurdomain.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/rurdomain
Releases Worldwide: March 30th, 2018

The post RÛR – RÛR Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

Since the time before time, the Angry Metal Promo Bin has relegated one specific sub-genre to its shadowy recesses, solely to be invoked for the most incensed, no-fucks-given of contemptuous insults. I’m talking, of course, about metalcore, the bastard product of bastard children bastardizing metal with their bastardly ways, the bastards. Ye Angry Metal Faithful know that metalcore is a damnation typically reserved for the most hated of Jørn‘s children, so why in His name have I delivered His flock directly unto the wolves? Fear ye not, it’s not just because I hate you all. I also hate me, for all kinds of reasons but mostly for revelling so gluttonously amongst the blackest of the bin’s offerings¹. We all deserve this to some extent, so bear with me and gather your courage, it’s time to look the beast of Coilguns in the face and say “Fuck you, metalcore, I ain’t afraid of no Millennials!”

Speaking of millennials, let me save you a Ritalin or Adderall or toad, whatever you bastards are substituting your attention spans with these days: this is a largely skippable album. This isn’t to say it’s bad – I’ll freely admit that this isn’t my wheelhouse and I’m likely to not “get” what I’m hearing. No, I can’t call what I’m hearing bad with a clean conscience, but I can call it derivative and not particularly ambitious, so… well, you know. This ish is derivative and not particularly ambitious, yo. Think the delirious stylings of The Dillinger Escape Plan applied to stilted Meshuggah riffs, all being screamed over by a poorly rested Jacob Bannon, and whatever your imagination is underwhelming you with should be about on par with what Millennials has to offer. An interesting enough set of ingredients to some, perhaps, but this peculiar Muppet won’t be revisiting this particular kitchen anytime soon.

Fan of this feast I mayn’t be, but that’s not necessarily a reflection of the cooks’ abilities. Moreover, the perpetual opponent of peace in me will forever appreciate the notion of taking what’s been done and making it heavier, which appears to be the goal of Millennials. The volume and distortion of Jona Nido and Louis Jucker’s guitars are stuck on 11, and Jucker’s energetic performance behind the mic on the title-track alone is sure to have cost the dude a day or two of vocal recovery. Throw in Luc Hess’s enthusiastic performance and sprinkle Donatien Thiévent’s synth and backing vocals over everything, and it’s undeniable that Millennials is the sound of a Swiss quartet putting their all into attempting to raise the heavy bar of… well, heaviness. The fervor and zeal of a band doing their damnedest to do their thing permeates the entirety of the album, and to that end I’ll dole out credit where it’s due. Coilguns are here to make things fuckin loud and they certainly accomplish this task.

It’s one thing to expound upon ye olde sonic foundations in hopes to pioneer a brave new metal world, but a key component of innovation is innovation, and that’s in short supply here. Sure, building on what’s already there is how you progress in the first place, but there’s a fine line between mutation and mimicry, and Millennials meanders on the malevolent side of that line more often than not. “Blackboxing” is as good an example as any, filtering Nothing era Meshuggah riffs through Norma Jean noise and going everywhere you’ve been before, just screechier. Subjectivity dictates that this will work for some, but objectivity dictates that this is all but unacceptable. Millennials is as dissonant and violent as fans of the genre are sure to expect, but it’s doing its thing with riffs and atmospheres that already existed, and fans hoping for any semblance of originality can only expect this knife to twist itself further as the album’s 38 minutes plod by.

For what it’s worth, I respect the ethos here. Coilguns attempt to inject some life into a relatively stale genre, but the end result is more Frankenstein than Bionic Man, forcing the dead riffs of yesteryear to writhe and shake in a parlor trick rather than improving them in any way with the technology of the present. If you’re looking for music that’s loud and chaotic solely for the sake of being such, I guess you’re welcome but maybe don’t talk to me ever again. If you’re looking for something that stands out independently while taking risks and displaying musical maturity, though… I mean, they called it Millennials, yo. Come on.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Hummus Records
Websites: coilguns.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/coilguns
Releases Worldwide: March 23rd, 2018

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Here we are, once again, gathered together under the metaphoric roof of the Angry Metal Hall. Our ranks comprise fans of all walks of metal, no two tastes are identical and yet we all convene here to bang our heads as one. What joins us disparate degenerates as children of the Jørn? What fantastic force unites the photometers, hamsters, and screaming boxes that plague our comment section? The answer holds as trve now as in those dark days preceding the internet: it’s the riffs, stupid. This obvious answer in turn poses an obvious question: “What does this have to do with Octopus‘ Supernatural Alliance?” As fate would have it, the Detroiters’ debut gives each of us in this motley medley of metal something to appreciate, but what might that be? You guessed it! You better have, anyway, cuz we’re gonna talk about it, starting now.

Right out the gate, Octopus ensnare the listener in slithering, rocking riffs, the kind sure to keep explorers of Supernatural Alliance held fast for at least a track or two. Could the remaining 9 tracks possibly rock in the same garden as this? Silly question, yo. From the Deep Purple hues of “Slave and Master” to the Necromancers-meets-Alunah title track, and even throughout the moody eeriness of “Child of Destiny,” Supernatural Alliance is a riff factory operating at max capacity. Guitarist J Frezzato traipses through tonal trails ranging from Orange Goblin retro revelry, monolithic Ghost Brigade chunkiness, and the fluid middle ground of Oceans of Slumber, and each adventure reveals a track armed to the teeth with the kind of riffs that have been keeping air guitars in business for centuries. The drums are about as stock-rock as they come, yet this move feels more practical than unambitious: the pacing is maintained effectively and in an understated manner, allowing the rock to keep rolling without distracting or detracting from The Almighty Riff. Keep your magical healing herb/s ready, your neck is going to need them.

Though scientists have recently determined the meaning ov life to be “to enjoy of deep riffs,” the great paradox of our time is that metal cannot live on riffs alone. Octopus meet this challenge with open tentacles, wielding a signature weapon of their own to augment the armada of awesome riffs. Enter: Masha Marjieh. With the powers of Alunah and Blondie combined, Captain Marjieh is the real hero here, keeping noise pollution down to zero and magnifying the bands performance with her own. Whether lending a sexy, infectious vibrancy to “Strike” or softly crooning her way through the more delicate corners of “All the Love,” Marjieh’s delivery recalls the works of Oceans of Slumber or the aforementioned Alunah in a performance easily on par with either, more established act. Indeed, this Octopus has a powerful plethora of riff-laden limbs lined with sweet sonic suction-cups at its disposal, but does it have the imagination and intelligence needed for it to be a truly formidable opponent?

Stop asking stupid questions, yo. Supernatural Alliance boasts an entire Angry Metal Menagerie of spirit animals, a 10 track ark of inspiration furthering the bloodlines of such revered beasts as Pink Floyd, Orange Goblin, Khemmis, and countless others. “All the Love” alone manages to drag the listener through a smoky jazz lounge and the doomy depths of Ghost Brigade before arriving on the outskirts of Hakens Mountain, and if that descriptor bores you then I desperately need to know what kind of unfathomably innovative music has your bar set so freaking high. The choruses have a tendency to loop a little longer than necessary at times, but when set against such fun fare the matter is all but unnoticeable. Keyboardist Adam Cox’s Deep Purple shading and 80’s synth leads go a long way towards countering any potentially stagnant moments, and I’ll be as honest as my hips, “Strike” turns me into something KC and the Sunshine Band would be proud of. If music that manipulates me into a state of awkward white motion isn’t fun, I don’t know what is.

Here at Slightly Irritated Rock Lad, we know that you have all been deeply saddened by the inexplicable influx of 4’s within the last month, and for that, I apologize but I can only say this: suck it, turds. I finds what I finds, and I done found me a fine fuckin find. We are bound by The Riff, and it is my sworn duty to guide you creeps unto its fretted trvth, no matter how much you lot bitch about it. You’re welcome.

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 8-9 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Rise Above Records
Website: facebook.com/the-octopus
Releases Worldwide: March 30th, 2018

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I’ve been a fan of England’s Coldbones since the very beginning of this review. Though the trio of Tory’s has been doing their cold and bony thing since at least 2014, I began this adventure with zero prior exposure to these kids from Kent, selecting this one solely for the band name. Progressive shoegaze may be the genre tag, but the imagery evoked by that namesake brought tidings of darkness just as grim as blackened—anything and I was worried that there was too much happiness in my life as of late, so here we are at Where It All Began. Now let’s, like, begin.

So, just what does progressive shoegaze sound like? For starters, it’s not actually all that dark all that often, it’s rarely grim, and it’s blackened -nothing. According to Coldbones, the answer is actually a smooth blend of Deftones, Tool, and Scale the Summit with just a hint of Corelia sprinkled throughout. Guitarist Jordan produces emotional atmospheres and luscious licks with equal skill, though the balance favors the former far more frequently than not. Max’s percussion proves pivotal in providing each piece a point of direction, his perfectly punctuated shifts in pacing and power transforming any given reverb-laden post-metal tremolo passage from a gentle buildup into an explosion with aplomb. Tracks like “New Heights” even see bassist Nick stepping up into the sonic forefront to shine, a welcome move to the shoegaze scene. Indeed, all of this musical goodness swims in a crystal clear mix (despite that atrocious DR), allowing the respective rompings of the band members to blend fluidly with each other while still flourishing on their own. My, what nice instrumentation you got there, Coldbones. It’d be a shame if a shitty vocalist were to… happen to it.

To that end, Coldbones take no chances and eliminate the risk entirely. That’s right, yo, this shit’s instrumental. Coldbones traverse the tonal territory of Where It All Began sans vocal tour guide, and for the most part, this absence proves beneficial by giving the listeners imagination the lead navigational role. The intensity and textures of any given song ebb and flow enough to carve their own stories without a lyrical narrative; “New Heights” and the title track are uplifting and triumphant without relying on a cheerleader, and anyone hearing a joyful message in “Lost” should probably be kept far away from people. One minute Coldbones are doing proggy Tool things, the next they’re doing post-y Spotlights things, and rarely does the music feel like it really needs vocal things. Moods are conveyed clearly and effectively throughout each of Where It All Began‘s eight tracks, and given that it took me three whole tracks to even realize I was listening to an instrumental album, I’d say Coldbones do an admirable job of crafting music that doesn’t utilize vocals.

While the bulk of Where It All Began is dynamic and engaging enough to maintain a sense of direction without a singer, many of its songs find themselves writhing within the same, not too terribly captivating moment for longer than is perhaps advisable without a vocal performance to lend life to the lackluster lowlights of the album. The whole less-is-more bit is a dangerous game to play with riffs as it is, subtracting vocals from the equation only increases the odds of yielding slightly fizzling, somewhat underwhelming results, and Coldbones haven’t quite mastered that delicate art just yet. Though there’s an undeniable mood-album appeal here for those seeking songs sans singer, I find the works of Scale the Summit or early Intervals to be a touch more engaging and thusly more effective at scratching that particular itch. The scenery here is vibrant and diverse enough to warrant the occasional visit, yet the overall lack of wildlife tends to render the tracks a tad too lifeless to warrant frequent returns.

Where It All Began may not be the most exhilarating trip in the world, but it’s still a pleasant journey lead by some very capable adventurers. Either a little fat trimming or else maybe adding a touch more Corelian flare to the scenery could go a long way toward this being something really remarkable, maybe even “at least a 4.5,” as our resident Huckman absolutely 100% definitely purported this to be. In my refined, beady little Muppet eyes, though, this one’s great for when you’re in the mood to Scale the Molehill, but those seeking a little more thrill in their sonic adventures should probably leave this one for the Sunday listeners.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 4 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Crooked Noise Records
Website: facebook.com/coldbonesuk
Releases Worldwide: April 6th, 2018

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In the curd kingdom of Powermetapolis, in the days just before World War III, things were not well. A cruel wizard, known as Dread Lord Chëëse, had descended upon Powermetapolis with his army — the Trite Trope Troop — and engulfed the lands in flames of predictable parmesan. The echoes of endless Epica clones haunted the air with their carbon-copy cries, over-the-top orchestral orchids had all but choked the indigenous metal flora into extinction, and the kingdom found itself reduced to a laughable shell of its former potential in the wake of the invading tides. Times were trvly tough for Powermetapolis, and in 2007 a group of a peculiar species known as Frenchmen formed an alliance known as Whyzdom, a musical militia whose mission was to bring back the life, the glory, and the powah to the kingdom. This is the 57-minute, fourth chapter of their story, titled As Time Turns to Dust.

Whyzdom‘s ranks comprised warriors trained in the ways of metal, armed to the teeth with the instruments of sonic combat that would be required to blast the dairy debacle into the past. Vynce and Régis possessed strings of justice and a penchant for punctuating passages with tried ‘n’ true chuggatry-chugtuation, if you like. There was Marc and his ivory armada of synthesized sound, and of course, good old Nico and Tristan, bolstering the ranks with pummeled aggression and low-end rhythmic grit. And then there was Marie, the leader of this lot, whose clumsy and ill-trained word-slinging ultimately wrought the great tragedy of which we now speak. With prayers to Nightwish, Shadowside, and ye olde goddesses ov opera, Marie lead her band of would-be warriors away from the hopes of a modest victory and straight into Chëëse’s hands.

Such is the great expanse of the metal realms that one might sympathize with the maiden Marie and how she wielded her wordly weaponry; there has never been a singular, “true” language of powah, and one could hardly fault the fair lady for stumbling on the pronunciation of words spoken in a secondary language, yet the inaugural skirmish of “Armour of Dust” was immediately lost to her faulty enunciation coupled with the ineffectiveness of her unrefined vocal cannons. Quasi-operatic vocals in Powermetapolis had already been explored and overdone with mixed results by the likes of Nightwish, Epica, and countless others; by Jørn, they were practically what lured Lord Chëëse to the lands in the first place, and why our heroine would choose this well-travelled route armed with such questionable weaponry is a mystery to this day. Indeed, Whyzdom were doomed from the start by their own design, and yet Marie was not alone in leading them to their bland and cheesy defeat.

In the great battle of “The Page,” 6 harrowing minutes were spent trying to wrest the kingdom from the claws of Chëëse, but to no avail. Vince and Régis’ uninventive Lacuna Coil of chugtuation lacked the element of surprise entirely, the Trite Trope Troop laid utter waste to the Dimmu Borgirian orchestral armament from the great siege of “Fly Away” and almost every subsequent and subsequently inconsequential battle, and though she could not be blamed entirely for Whyzdom‘s loss it still came to pass that for each enjoyable moment of success found in “Angel of Tears,” there was Marie faltering with off-key assaults and ill-fated falsettos, leading the way to dairyclad defeat. From one track-attack to the next, the Frenchmen remained unable to orchestrate an imaginative and effective assault against Chëëse, armed as they were with but moderate weaponry and under such hapless leadership. Was there any hope for Whyzdom?

No, no there was not.The battle raged on and on, fueled by the venom of hatred for originality and exceptional musicianship, and although the Frenchmen did experience a few minor victories in the days of As Time Turns to Dust, each was fleeting and pyrrhic, too infrequent and stained by too much suffering to be of any merit. Relying on the same battle tactics that had been losing the war to Chëëse for centuries yielded the same dairy drenched defeat that the Trite Trope Troop were famous for inflicting and, though, allowing an awkward and inexperienced grunt to take the command role may have seemed to fit the formula on paper, the Angry Metal Archives will forever tell a tale of tears when recounting the riccottan legend of Whyzdom. If our time talking about these tragedies has taught you anything, let it be the following: what’s cheesed before will cheese again, and if you’re going to follow in the footsteps of a stereotype then make sure you can at least fill those shoes, lest ye wind up wandering the weak and woefully weary way of Whyzdom.
Now get the fuck off my lawn.

Rating: 2.0/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 160 kbps mp3
Label: Scarlet Records
Websites: whyzdom.bandcamp.com | whyzdom.fr | facebook.com/whyzdomproject
Releases Worldwide: April 6th, 2018

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Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk about you again. Try though I did to abandon my pursuits ov the fabled black dragon, there is only so much one can do to wrest themselves from the hands of their own addictions. There is also only so much one can do when the Madam herself slams the needle directly into your feeble, velvety arm and says “you’re going for a ride, ready or not!” Addiction is an ugly, fearsome thing, and so are Greece’s Nigredo. Their full-length debut, Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced, gave not one fuck for my fear of the dark, so settle in, enjoy of deep contact high and let’s see if this was worth falling off the wagon over.

Opener “Ten Repellant Antiforces” sees the dry tonal bones of early Dimmu Borgir given dark new life by necromantic Slayer rhythm riff sorcery and makes one thing crystal clear (with an obsidian sheen, ov course): it’s all about the riffs, yo. Atmofiends will need to look elsewhere for any hint of a melodic fix, meanwhile, the adrenaline junkies of the hall are almost certain to get hooked on A.’s six-stringed riffocopia. Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced burns in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Burial Oath, reveling in riffs that are as black as they come whilst being catchy enough to bang your head to. You will bang your head, too, when tracks like “Choronzon Possession” and “Saturnian Death Cult” get into your system. From start to finish, Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced is a blackened haze of activity, an eight-track trip to the dark side of the riff.

As is consistently the case among the chaos cartel that is Transcending Obscurity’s roster, this particular bit of aural debauchery is not so much a sonic peace pipe as it is an angry metal speedball laced with PCP and caffeine slammed straight into the heart. Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced is a balls to the wall affair, blissfully blackened death metal in the vein ov Behemoth uttering Incantations hammered along at breakneck speeds by Maelstrom’s spasmodic storm of sticks n’ skins with zero seconds allotted for catching one’s breath. Indeed, “Sons of Worthlessness” writhes and thrashes its way through a fiery void housing the spirits of Ulcerate, Dimmu, and even ghostly whispers of early (read: good) Metallica. All the while, A. shrieks and screeches Satan into sonic existence with a set of scream-tubes similar to Shagrath stretching for Nergal stars, and every second of this obsidian orgy is as evil as it is enjoyable.

This album certainly sent me straight to cloud 666, but as with all good relapses, it comes with a complimentary side of regret, and in the afterglow, I noticed a few things that keep Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced just shy of Heisenberg-ing the game. Nigredo‘s bay area Behemoth-sound is sure to become instantly recognizable, but here in the developmental stage, “Ten Repellant Antiforces” and “Raging Tides of Time” are a little too similar in sound to strongly stand out from each other. The bass presence on the album is also pretty much metaphorical as far as the mix goes, which is a shame but also somewhat par for the course. That said, the 37-minute run time fits the flow and energy of Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced quite well, allowing the ride to romp and rage without inducing an overdose, all-in-all it’s difficult to find fault with so much character and energy. A little refining of the songwriting skills will serve these guys well down the road, but even in their fledgling state Nigredo have created something with the potential to turn Greece into the Colombia of blackened death.

Madam X is a terrible role model, but a wise and wonderful overlord. Whether you’re a riff addict, a blackness binger or just a death fiend in general, Nigredo are a band you’re going to want to get hooked on. This is the kind of evil riffy shit to blast during “do you have a minute to talk about” home invasions, and you can never have too much of that. Flesh Torn – Spirit Pierced is an excellent debut with a blackened assload of potential. May the withdrawal period be brief and the shakes manageable.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Transcending Obscurity Records
Websites: nigredogr.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/nigredogr
Releases Worldwide: April 16th, 2018

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Oh, Metalcore, I mourn for those who never knew you. Glorious was the heyday of such then-gigantic core ‘core acts as Killswitch Engage, All That Remains, Shadows Fall, etc. The alchemy of fusing melodeath-inspired riffage and radio-friendly songwriting yielded far more quality results than one might expect or willingly concede, yet the saturation and over recycling of this formula ultimately failed to maintain the staying power of its trve idols. Nonetheless, it’s still a thing, so people are still doing it. In Germany, Burden of Grief are hard at work being that collective guy, and Eye of the Storm is their latest journey back to the days of olde.

Dissonance seekers move right along; the Storm isn’t “true” -core but rather “that” -core, 11 tracks of Gothenburg melody doled out in easily digested verse/chorus/verse/solo/chorus bites. Mid-era In Flames fused with Killswitch riffage is churned and chugged out with a healthy Hypocrisy hue at the hands of Philipp Hanfland and Johannes Rudolph, the pair unloading lick after lively lick and leaping straight at my nostalgic heart-thing all the while. Drummer Sebastian Robrecht likewise knows what’s up, unleashing a percussive fury reminiscent of Chimaira and giving zero fucks for tranquillity (you know, other than the Dark kind.) That Mike Huhmann’s screams hearken to modern At the Gates is only appropriate, and his execution and staunch avoidance of vocal hygiene serve the Storm admirably. Burden of Grief are clearly loyal minions of the metalcore masters, but does that even matter in the post-djentocalypse pre-apocalypse shitscape of the now?

If riffs and righteous, rhythmic chugging redolent of the ashes of In Flames are your thing, then fear not/less: Eye of the Storm is as top notch ‘core as can be found here in the future. The title track takes a trip back to that all important tonal time when In Flames rerouted to remain relevant and holds on to that moment with a deathgrip on yesterday, instead of providing a soundtrack to escape from. “Killing Spree” may not be an exercise in wheel transformation, but it’s right at the gates between metalcore and melodeath riff greatness, and if it doesn’t make you bang your head then I simply don’t trust you. True to form, “Wolf Moon” will likely blow zero minds, and yet its In Flames energy is certain to leave many a neck sore. Eye of the Storm sees five dudes doing melodeath things in metalcore ways for 42 minutes, and though there’s not much new ground covered here, it’s also undeniable and very much in Burden of Grief‘s favor that the band manages to maintain a sound of their own amidst such well-trodden sonic scenery.

This paradoxical nature of the album made assigning it a rating somewhat difficult. It was solid, yet ever changing. It was different, but yet the same. We already know the metalcore formula a little too well by now, and the bands refusal to branch too far from that path leaves the overall impact of the Storm a bit underwhelming with its distinct lack of surprises. What is surprising is the distinct lack of noodly leadwork when the band is clearly following footsteps that typically favor such fare; solos are as much a part of the formula here as in any of their idols’s world, yet Eye of the Storm shies away from the fret-board frenzy that gave bands like All That Remains or Shadows Fall that extra oomph the elite relied on when justifying their invariable love for the ghosts of metalcore past. However, there’s more than enough going on in any given track to ease the stings of conscience that come from ‘core conformity, and Huhmann’s wrathful energy keeps things heavy and engaging enough to ensure that this storm is still one worth chasing.

With a little more zazz and a few attempts made to at least nudge the envelope, Eye of the Storm would have owned the early 2000’s without question. As it stands, Burden of Grief have arrived at this particular party perhaps a bit later than advisable, and yet I find I have no desire to tell them to go home. As bands like All That Remains and Killswitch Engage fall deeper into the arms of sorrow and hasbeenery, there’s something endearing in seeing the scene kept alive and not just breathing. Though it may not bring anything particularly innovative to the table, Eye of the Storm is a fine display of modern Killswitchcore that also pays heavy respects to the melodeath of their day, an excellent temporary end of the heartache that comes with leaving the past behind.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Massacre Records
Websites: burdenofgrief.com | facebook.com/burdenofgrief
Releases Worldwide: May 4th, 2018

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Fractal Gates have been on my radar since a certain simian scribe o’ Steel introduced me to Enshine, one of several solid acts featuring Fractal Gates‘ Sébastien Pierre. While Enshine sees Sébastien’s screams set to some sweetly soaring and seriously expressive string work, the dudes we’re discussing deal in dirtier, deathier depths of metal. Space-death, as it were, or something to that effect. Whatever it is, it’s 100% Muppet approved, so when I saw this one hovering in the promo cess-isphere, all Swanö-mastered and unsnagged, I quickly dumped as much Nyquil as I could spare into the break room hobo wine, waited for Steel to invariably pass out, then made my move. Quick, before he comes to, let’s see if this was worth poisoning management over¹.

The most I can say for ambient intro “Vision X” is that it’s there, merely existing before merging into “Breath of Life” and doing nothing that the album couldn’t have lived without. Don’t be too surprised, but the interlude and outro follow suit. Thankfully, the rest of the album is significantly more engaging, an enjoyable visit to the outskirts of Scar Symmetry‘s sonic solar system. Sébastien’s growls are top notch as always, throat wrenching vocal transmissions from frequencies somewhere between October Tide and Antarktis that give The Light life. Guitarists Stéphane Peudupin and Arnaud Hoarau fuse melodeath magic and astral atmospheres into something riffed out of this world, albeit not necessarily downright stellar. There’s no denying the enjoyability of celestial melodeath voyages through “Chasing the Line” and “Bound by Time,” but there’s also no denying their structural similarity, or the fact that some solo flares would lend more life to Fractal Gates‘s universe. That said, this is still some pretty solid sounding stuff.

Did I say this sounded solid? Of course I did, you just read so. You also recently read that Swanö got his golden fingers on the mastering reigns, so it goes without saying that the album itself sounds fucking excellent. Each instrument is given plenty of room in the mix, and Sébastien’s screams are similarly never stifled or else stifling. Jeremy Briquet’s work behind the kit, in particular, benefits greatly from the studio god’s wisdom by being granted an appropriate presence in any particular passage; when the drums need to match the intense Dark Tranquility chuggatry of “Faceless,” they’re loud and crystal clear yet not deafening, and the way they pair with bassist Antoine Verdier’s work sounds better than any rhythm section I’ve heard in anything I’ve reviewed thus far. For realz, I drew several looks of concern at the laundromat as I was listening to “Dreams Apart” for the first time and exclaimed “Holy fucking shit!” for no apparent reason, the clarity and resultant delivery of the song’s chugged-out middle astounding me into utter unawareness.

Both the band in general and the album in particular sound great in their own ways, but The Light That Shines reveals much mediocrity when one explores the compositional dynamics of the album; the compositions are consistently solid and the music maintains its appeal to anyone interested in the sound of Before the Dawn in space, but with each track strictly adhering to a formula that shies away from fretboard supernovae, there’s definitely less life than one might expect regardless of how much/little they care for the sonic stars being circled here. Proper closer “Seas of Flames” is a personal favorite, and yet I must admit that it does nothing with its time that hasn’t been done in the half-hour that preceded it. Fractal Gates may work with superior equipment, but the finished product here is a somewhat unambitious collection of clones, after the first four or five tracks The Light That Shines becomes an echo chamber and without sufficient sonic sparkling to spruce the songs up such a situation is, sadly, unsustainable sans attention span casualties.

At first blush The Light That Shines radiates with potential and promise, but all the musical makeup and Muppet adoration in the world can’t make a so-so album truly shine. If culled down into a 5 track EP, the material would make an excellent teaser for greater things to come, were such the case. As it stands, my high hopes came crashing down to earth in a disappointing burst of snores and repetition, and I’ve been forced into moodily adopting a flask-only policy for fear that the ape who must not be named returns to mete out silverback justice. Hopefully this isn’t my last review between now and that fateful day, as I’d prefer to leave you all with something to remember.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Rain Without End Records
Websites: fractalgates.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/fractalgates
Releases Worldwide: May 12th, 2018

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Though the list of bizarre shit to be experienced and eventually incorporated into the norm only continues to grow, there are still some things that you just don’t expect to actually encounter for yourself. Cheese-stuffed fried chicken, lapdogs that aren’t insufferable yippy shits, an album brutal enough for Kronos… each of these wonderful oddities exists, but they’re hard at work being hard to find and proving my point. Among this list of wonderment and rarity is deathcore that I can tolerate beyond 15 seconds. Truth be told, I enjoy the shit out of the genre in a live environment, but when processed through a discerning lens in a personal, more peaceful environment, rarely does deathcore hold up on headphones half as well as it does on paper and stage. That said, it does happen from time to time, and Obliterate have done it…

Again! Impending Death is the Canadians’ second time beating down the block, and they’ve certainly fuckin done it this time around. Look no further than the embedded track for a blast of brutal, tightly executed and slightly progressive deathcore in the filthy yet melodic vein of Delta. As of this sentence, I have no idea what said embedded track will be, but I’m right and you’re welcome. Be it “Aneurysm,” “Reconquered,” literally any of Impending Death‘s 8 tracks, the album is consistently comprised of carefully coordinated chaos and calamity, the kind that kicks you in the kidmaker and causes you to crave its continuance. Furthermore, the organic cohesion of the tracks allows – practically demands – the album to do its thing from start to finish in a very natural feeling way, and I didn’t even know that such artsy-fartsy nonsense was allowed in deathcore. Don’t even start with me, ‘core fans, you lot are responsible for Emmure‘s continued existence and I’ll have none of your bullshit.

What makes Impending Death work so well  overall is its willingness to do more than beat the living shit out of the listener’s eardrums via breakdown after overdone breakdown. The breakdowns are there, of course, but a distinctly melodic presence exists among the chaos as well, and therein lies the beauty of Impending Death. Guitarists Marcus Adam and Hubert Therrien chug and slam their way right through Kronos‘ alley, driveway and living room, and even the occasionally allotted moment to catch ones breath rarely sees the brutality dialed down at all. Instead of rolling back the distortion and volume and actually chilling out – though this does happen, specifically during the transition from “I, Cerberus” and “Numbers” and to great effect – a sense of serenity is instilled by weaving soaring, melodic fret-board flights within the storm, utilizing the contrast of Delusions of Grandeur-esque proggy bits against the slamming chaos to create a calming effect. Taking a path less traveled in a genre of clones is a risky move but almost always the right one, and Obliterate‘s exploration pays off big-time here.

While deviation from the norm is fine and dandy, a broken mold will only work if some of it holds true enough to form to retain recognizable functionality. To that end, let’s all give a big thank you to drummer Pat Woods and vocalist Rémi Provencher for maintaining the ‘core quo. When it comes to the thundering breakdowns and blastbeats from which deathcore typically draws its power, Woods has the goods, hammering away at the kit like he hates it and ensuring tracks like “In Devil’s Care” never go progging too far away from the core ‘core sound all the while. Further resolving any potential identity crises, Provencher alternates between gut-grumbling growls and throat-shredding shrieks that’ll sound like no place but home to fans of Delta and the like. Make no mistake, this is deathcore, but don’t make the mistake of passing Impending Death by for that alone, as this is some really fucking good deathcore.

A confession before we part: I expected – nay, wanted to hate Impending Death. I’d been looking for something to unload some vitriol on for a while, and I’d believed this to be an easy target for the genre alone. I’m pleasantly pissed to be so angrily surprised; I went digging for blood and stumbled upon gold with this particular album, Obliterate may have forced me to reevaluate my take on deathcore in general with Impending Death. Such unkvlt praise will surely be met with rabbles of dissent from those far more elite and trve than I, but on that note I’ll leave you with two points: save it for the review websites that you write for, yo, and the worst is yet to come.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 1411 kbps wav
Label: Unique Leader Records
Websites: obliteratemetal.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/obliteratemetal
Releases Worldwide: May 18th, 2018

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The Angry Metal Promo Bin is a fickle mistress. She can conceal highly sought after treasures by surrounding them with infinite no-names, and she can trick you into believing that Rapture is Rapture. Worse yet, she mistags like a motherfucker, calling this genre that and slapping the black metal label on albums with wild abandon. It’s frustrating enough when selecting an unknown band only to find that she’s lied again, but there’s something even more personally offensive in seeing a band that you actually do know and love flagged under the wrong genre. Enter: Wilt‘s Ruin, billed (like everything else) as black metal. Excuse me, Lady Bin, but the Canadian quartet has been one of my absolute favorite underground DOOM acts since 2017’s Moving Monoliths, so why the fuck are you listing this new offering as black metal?

Well, um, cuz it is. To be fair, they always were quite a bit blackened around the edges, but from the first tremolo-picked moments of the aptly-titled opener “Into the Unknown” to the fading screams of closer “Requiem,” this… is…. BLACK METAL! Jordan Dorge dolefully doles out DSBM shrieks and wails that occasionally threaten to crack a la Ghost Bath but instead hold trve and are delivered on Ruin as well as anyone else doing the damn thing. That’s roughly everyone, but moving on. The music of Ruin alternates between blackened bleakness and fiery fury, a tremolo laden leap into the lands of legends like Wiegedood or Drudkh. These may not be doom riffs, per se, but a riff by any other name and all that. Whatever Wilt wish to be billed as these days, with this new sonic style being set to songs averaging around the 7-8 minute mark, it’s clear that these sweet riffs go a long way towards leaving the doom behind.

To put things in perspective: When last we Wilted, the “short” song clocked in just shy of 12 minutes. As opposed to the wallowing in the unfast unhappiness of, say, Slow, Moving Monoliths lurched forward in a manner closer to the crawling creations of The Slow Death, taking its time but never surrendering its right to bare riffs. Ruin still sounds super similar to the same band, but the sprawling song structures have been surgically restyled into something stronger, faster; Wilt haven’t so much trimmed the fat as they have chosen to apply their sound to more succinct, straightforward melodies, retaining all of their Wilty Wiltness while undergoing genre reassignment on a technical level. “Strings of a Lingering Heart” in particular makes excellent use of this new form, sounding as forlorn and fierce as anything before and getting the job done in just under 7 minutes. This version of Wilt, while stunning and brave in its transformation, is still the same band in all the ways that matter.

As always, what matters is riffs, and they are everywhere you look in Ruin. With a style reminiscent of Winterfylleth under a Crow Black Sky, guitarists Jay Edwards and Brett Goodchild ride the frigid winds of change like bosses for 44 minutes, blackening up tracks like “Strings” or “We Read the World Wrong” as though they already owned the genre. Trve to local customs of this newfound sonic land, the overall production is murky enough to be kvlt yet never becomes so unclear as to render the music a mess; Dorge’s charred delivery is set back in the mix enough as to blend and function as part of the instrumentation instead of drawing attention to itself, and Mike Lewis’ more subtle snare-fills suffer a smidge in the dim light of “A Summons Has Come,” but there’s nothing unforgivable going on here. There are clearer sounding black metal albums, but this isn’t Burzum, either. It’s definitely black metal, though, and pretty fuckin solid black metal at that, so I suppose I’ll forgive the Lady Bin. For now.

Apparently change can be for the greater good (the greater good.) Who knew? It seems Wilt did, making the leap ov faith further into the dark side and emerging a more efficient member of the kvlt for their commitment. I still don’t trust the promo bin for shit, but she gave me Ruin so I say thank ya nonetheless. Regardless, it seems these Canadians are excellent in all they do(om), and I for one can’t wait to see what they do next.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Vendetta Records
Websites: wiltmanitoba.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/wiltmb
Releases Worldwide: May 18th, 2018

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Sometimes I only remember the days when I was young, yet nowadays no one else remembers when they were young and stupid. Sure, it’s kvlt and trendy to affect disdain or downright contempt for the genre, but Muppet sees your elitist bullshit and raises you one velvety middle finger: no one’s saying nü-metal was something to be proud of, but there’s a reason you all know how much it matters when one tries so hard and gets so far. Bastion of trite simplicity and harbinger of cringes that it was, a hook is a hook, and the down-tuned puddle of muddy, rap-tainted bullshit that was nü-metal invariably came with more earhookworms than could possibly be fathomed. Eventually, though, everyone grew up and realized how ridiculous this Durst-y bullshit was, and an unspoken agreement was made to put an end to this nightmare. Germany’s Nancybreathing didn’t get that memo.

I’m gonna be the bigger Muppet and leave any discussion regarding that gem of a name for the comments. We’re here to talk about the music, and though that’s in short supply here I’m still honor-bound to warn you of the horrors awaiting within Awake. The first monstrosity on display in this menagerie of musical missteps is ‘singer’ Christian, whose stilted pronunciations could be forgiven if such were at least attributed to an otherwise strong performance. They are not. The harsh vocals are tolerable, sounding somewhat similar to the more aggressive moments of Endo and going a long way towards keeping this thing above a 0, but the cleans… well, they go a long way toward pushing this thing into null-mans land. Think Maynard half-assing a B side after too many of his precious wines: what we hear on Awake is only slightly less pleasant than that. Cliche lyrics delivered in a predictable formula based heavily in repetition and wrapped in razorwires of angsty edge… ugh.

Even ugh-ly-er is the utter lack imagination to be found within the instrumentation. The nü-nonsense tone and clarity of the guitars once again save Awake from the depths of trve 0, but once again just barely. The heavy, djenty tones of “World on Fire” and “Stronger Than Before” could almost pass for Sevendust or Staind, possibly a beefier Flaw, except each of those bands have released not just songs but entire albums that I enjoy to this day, whereas Nancybreathing have only done this and worse. For over forty minutes, Awake sees these Germans beating the Jørn-forsaken fuck out of 10 dead horses, and the end result just makes me want to break shit. I have nothing to say regarding the drums or bass other than that I can hear them, and that’s probably for the best.

The cause of my contempt, in case you’re as quick as these kids (seriously guys, it’s 2018, what the fuck are you doing making nü-metal???) is that these guys aren’t trying to be so much a band as a collective best-of hodgepodge comprising the members’ old nü heroes. “Too Many” is too much like hearing a Chevelle cover act accidentally merge into a Sevendust track and doing a shitty job at it, and the obligatory feels showcase “Hush” finds Christian floundering through a misguided Tool-meets-Red mire of overdone nümotion. For doing their thing under such a unique crest, Nancybreathing are doing absolutely nothing of their own instrumentally, and doing it with an ill-qualified nü-metal vocalist – which, apparently, is a thing – is about as forgivable as that Korn tattoo we all know you have. As of this posting I haven’t forced myself to listen to “Groundhog Day” to completion, and fuck you if you think anyone owes you having to endure such for the sake of a review. I net but a mere $666,000,000 per review, you can only ask so much from a Muppet.

My favorite part of my Awake experience was discovering a part of myself that I did not know exist, namely, the one that simply cannot sit idly by as his aural cavities become flooded in bullshit too painfully derivative to endure for the sake of a review. Even Whyzdom squeezed a couple straight-through play-throughs outta me before I succumbed to insanity, but this is some hot garbage and I never want to talk about it again. A present-day acoustic Limp Bizkit set would be about ten times more bearable and at least twenty times more imaginative than this is, and I don’t believe I’ve ever had a meaner thing to say about anyone. To balance that out: thanks for not Nancyrapping, guys, it was really nice of you to spare me a 0.0 and I really appreciated it.

Rating: 0.5/5.0
DR: 6-7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Boersma Records
Website: facebook.com/nancybreathing
Releases Worldwide: May 25th, 2018

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It’s not exactly a secret that I enjoy of deep atmospheric black metal just as much as the next guy deems to be unhealthy, though even I don’t know where my own obsession with the sounds ov misanthropy came from. Maybe it was Maine, maybe it was Northern winter nights. Maybe it was you people; maybe it was me and my staunch opposition to joy that lead me here; whatever the case, it sure felt right to pluck Skyborne Reveries‘ Winter Lights from the promo bin after a bit of… unpleasantness. The captivating cover art, one-man atmospheric black metal tag and imagery-evoking moniker all checked off a line of boxes straight to my blob of heart stuff, and with that, the die was cast. A nice trip back home to recover from grievous injuries sustained in strange lands, what could go wrong?

Turns out, almost fucking nothing. Almost. Angry Metal Disclaimer: if we were going on nothing but my own subjective experience, this thing would be at least a 5.5/5. Winter Lights is nothing shy of Master-bait¹ music, a 57-minute mournful serenade of stars delivered with gently blackened poignancy unto the moonlit wilderness. Blending the shimmering ambience of Violet Cold with the ebony splendor of Agalloch, Winter Lights is atmospheric black gold, and though it may not be entirely without fault I am entirely without doubt that this is the best I’ve heard of its kind all year. With Bloodbark having set the personal bar all the way back in January, I would have been content with anything listenable, but I found Winter Lights instead, and it’s only fair that I share the wealth, yo.

It should come as no surprise that Winter Lights is an exercise in mood evoking; the album is far from strictly ambient, but even the most aggressive moments tend to deliver feels rather than riffs. The darkest moments of “The Forgotten” are as charred and violent as anything Drudkh ever didkh, yet the frost-laden tremolo-picked Pillorian blackness of the guitars serves mostly to paint a dimly lit backdrop for the keys to illuminate and bring to life. Don’t get me wrong, tracks such as “Ascending Beyond That August Firmament” and “When Stars Sing” dabble in the delightfully melodic blackened sensibilities of Saor or Mavradoxa, but it’s the Violet Cold iridescence of the keyboard that trvly shines here. The whole album is a moonlit walk in the woods in search of a lonely death, the kind of resplendent sonic sorrow that is both crushing yet comforting and oddly addictive. Above and throughout all of this wonderful woe soars the man responsible for it all, Nathan Churches, whose otherworldly Cormorant shrieks are chock full ov Unreqvited conviction and may just be my new favorite of the genre.

So yeah, I fuckin love Winter Lights, but is it perfect? Yes. No. First and foremost, there’s a weird timing thing in “Ascending” that never fails to come across as unduly jarring no matter how much I brace myself beforehand. This and the overall absence of anything particularly standout occurring in the rhythm section are literally my only complaints as a listener, but the reviewing lens refuses to turn its focus from that list of namedrops. Saliva-inducing thing ov blackened beauty it may be, but the inability to discuss any attribute of Skyborne Reveries‘ sound without immediately drawing comparisons to X band is a bit unfortunate no matter how you spin it. This dvde is doing trvly beautiful things, but to a certain extent, none of it feels original. Sure,  Winter Lights cherry-picked the absolute best ov the blackened best and assembled its scavengery into something list-worthy, but theft is theft and much of what we have here is just shy of that. I’ve heard all this before, this just happens to be the best way that I’ve heard it all so far.

Original, director’s cut, redux, whatever you want to call BloodbarkRûrVioletColdMavradoxa, this was a welcome respite from the rest of the bullshit we called May. AMG ain’t found a way to kill me yet, and though my eyes burn with stinging sweat at the mere thought of another Nancybreathing, it’s nice to know that not every path leads me to nowhere. Oracle of originality it may not be, Winter Lights is nonetheless the atmospheric black metal album I’ve been looking for, probably because of that very fact. Everything atmofiends love to hear is here, and I have zero doubt that Winter Lights will rest comfortably atop many a pretentious pile of opinions come list season.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Naturmacht Productions
Websites: skybornereveries.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/skybornereveries
Releases Worldwide: May 25th, 2018

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Pop quiz, motherfathers: What has the voice of an apathetic angel, Sabbathian wings o’ doom, and slowly circles the skies with Alunah in its claws and Italian fire in its heart? If you didn’t guess Haunted, either the review title got fucked up or you’re just one of the masses. Haunted aren’t exactly cavehold names in the doom community, but Dayburner sees the quintet looking to change that. Iommi worship acts being a doom a dozen these days, could these guys possibly be bringing anything new to the fuzzy plate? If so, is it something to be proud of? How haven’t I heard of these doomsters before now? And why so many questions?

Answers: sort of, yes, subterranean existence, and because knowledge is power, yo. Haunted follow in the plodding vein of Windhand and Alunah, paying riffy tribute to the lengthy ways of ye olde Black Sabbath with a decidedly more modern tone and sense of aggression. Speaking of modern, the presence of the fairer sex behind the mic is also slowly becoming more customary within the lethargic ranks of the genre, and Cristina Chimirri’s dayburning performance is a particularly potent one. Comparisons to Alunah are likely inevitable and certainly not misplaced, but there’s also a brooding energy reminiscent of The Slow Death‘s Mandy Andresen that lends itself excellently to Chimirri’s darkened Cranberries-esque wails of lament; female fronted doom is becoming more commonplace as the metal scene joins the slow but gradual global relocation of collective head from ass, but the dark seas o’ doom are not yet so fraught with lady fish as to disallow Chimirri to stand out from the school.

Structurally speaking, girl-meets-doom may be old hat by now, but this isn’t to say that Dayburner is just another trip back in time with fuzzed tones and glazed eyes. There’s the hollow vibrancy of Chimirri’s dark musings that really ties the doom together, and for all its idolizing of the olde there is still enough dark new blood in Dayburner‘s riffs and melodies to allow the album to feel like a fresh new experience instead of yet another tired gathering at the same old graves. Songs such as “Waterdawn” or “Mourning Sun” see some super Sabbath-y stuff ensconced in sludge and served with a side of six-string solos that slither in a style similar to a spookier and somewhat subdued Necromancers, and occasional keyboard accents add a pleasantly unpleasant atmosphere while bucking the traditional Italian doom customs of drowning everything in Nosferatu-scented cheese. While much of what’s being done here has been done enough in doom to damn the whole ordeal as downright derivative, Haunted have enough of their own thing going on as to have a distinct and enjoyable signature sound… so why haven’t I heard of them before?

Ultimately, the disappointing reality is that Haunted albums aren’t quite worth babbling about… yet. Though Francesco’s Bauso and Orlando deliver doomed guitar goods in riffalicious spades, the whole “less is more” bit is widely ignored in favor of a “more of everything” ethos for Dayburner‘s 76 minutes.  This is at great detriment to both the album and the band. Crawling along for over 13 minutes, the Windhand-ed “Vespertine” in particular may dabble in some delightfully dour dominions of doom while featuring the most lively and engaging solo of the album, but without ample songwriting dynamics to spruce things up, they get really stale really fast. The talent and downtrodden soul that make for excellent doom metal are very evidently here, but the songwriting skills required to make an appropriately excellent doom album are, unfortunately, not quite there yet. Dayburner suffers greatly for its beyond repetitive and less than enthralling structures, the end result being an album somewhat too tedious to justify the full eight song marathon that Haunted deliver.

Doom and brevity may be mortal enemies, yet until Haunted‘s editing game catches up to their musicianship they’ll find themselves losing the list season battle every time. This is definitely a shame, as Chimirri alone is clearly a valuable addition to any band, and the Ghost Brigade-does-Sabbath riffs of Dayburner truly are top notch. Haunted have all the right ghosts in their graveyard, but they let them linger for far longer than is advisable, and by doing so the band renders their distinct and highly enjoyable sound significantly less enjoyable.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Twin Earth Records
Websites: haunteditaly.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/hauntedband666
Releases Worldwide: June 8th, 2018

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Mvppets 21:13
…and though the word of the land was good — for blessed are they who toil as to bring glory unto Jørn — there were those that spake a word which decried all that is right and trve, and through their blasphemy bestowed they unto the land a pox which made a mockery of these things rendered unto all by our Lord’s Jørn-ness. “Behold!” spake the Muppet “ye heathens ov Canada! Hear me, I beg! Renounce thy false idol and remove its name from thine tongues forever!” But lo, and a great cry came forth from the mouths of the unrepentant, for yet they still followed the word ov the untrve, and spaketh they the word as one in a voice which made the very earth quake.
And the word was “Bookakee.”

Bookakee 1:5
…and so it came to pass that five demons would crawl forth from those most wretched depths of Canada. So named were those minions of befoulment: Philippe Langelier, Simon Pierre Gagnon, Jonathan David, JP Bouchard, and Jonathan Gagnon. In the name of the ‘phagist, The Faceless and the Dying Fetus spake the demons, and burned them together in the hellfire of those spirits until the five became one, and the beast would be called Bookakee. Lo, and there was tech-death, for the combined essences of the Gagnons gave the abomination fierce noodly strings with which the beast beat its victims most unmercifully. With Bouchard’s cloven hooves ran the demon, and split the very land did he with the quaking tumult of his blasting percussive stride. In the belly of the beast burned the bassfire of David, and this fire was a firmament, and this firmament did hold. Immeasurable powers did the leviathan of Canada wield, and in the valley of the shadow of tech-death screamed the monster with the voice of he that was Langelier, spaketh he with the souls of wrathful spirits and tortured swine. “Alas!” spake the Muppet “Bookakee is upon me!”

Ignominies 6:29
…and in the year of our Jørn 2018, the great beast returned, and laid waste did it to eardrums and expectations. Lo, and there was noodling, and though the lands were accustomed to wanking assaults, unprepared were they for the desolation to come. With unearthly skill and technical prowess the fretboards did burn, and those who bade audience to the Cryptopsy burnings of “Monarch of the Depraved” and “Oculus Nebula” became enthralled to the desolation: for though this masked aberration walked not in Jørn‘s trvth, such was the strength of its noodles that a man who is faithful to trvth might be made to gaze upon the creature with lust in his ears. A great flood of ever-shifting song structures swept the land for 11 tracks and 50 minutes, and those who had publicly denounced the beast were made to celebrate the progressive schizophrenia delivered unto them with astounding versatility. They who had prepared once more for the millionth coming of the Necrophagist were met instead with Faceless progression and jazz-ebel seduction, and helpless were they to resist the originality and zazz which beset them so.

Bookakee 2:16
Yea, for though the music which sprayed forth did drench the land in spunk, the children of Jørn would not so easily be drowned by the will of Langelier. As an icepick is to the brain, so were the porcine cries to the ears; lo, and there was pig squealing, for as Ignominies burned to the ground in a blasphemous revelry of blast beats and spastic string-ed miracles, the beast let out a great “breeee!” and its power was no more. And so it came that the beast did defeat itself, for its Dillinger Escape Plan of frenzied stylistic amalgamation could not undo the many errors wrought by the piggening. Though the playful insanity of “Mario Whirl” and utter slamming devastation of “Muliebria” haunted the Muppet‘s ears and bade him question his faith, each pig-ed cry reminded him of Jørn’s love, for never are His children made to listen to such swine songs. Though the tech was strong and the death was good, the soul of Langelier simply could not claim that of the Muppet, and there was much rejoicing.

Angrynthians 7:11
…and so the Muppet would recount those horrors from the times of Ignominies, and in the darkest part of his heart there still yet lay a shameful fascination with the beast: would not his soul the demon have seized had it spake with any other tongue? “Mario Whirl” yet echoed in his ears and, though the absurd and much-maligned voice of the monster had failed to engulf the puppet in its sticky heretical Armageddon, trembled he to realize that such blasphemy stood but alone between he and giving in to Bookakee; should the word of the beast become less piggish, a day might come when he might resist the infectious cacophony of the beast no longer. Many were they that would fall victim to the devilry of Bookakee, but among them, the Muppet was not.
For now.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Transcending Records
Websites: bookakee.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/bookakee
Releases Worldwide: June 29th, 2018

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A black metal Transcending Obscurity release with monochrome artwork: who could have ever foreseen this one falling into my velvety grasp? Portugal’s Gaerea certainly put their Muppet-est foot forward when casting Unsettling Whispers into the Angry Metal Promo Sump, and yet I was wary. Black metal is the best metal, ov course, but it’s also everywhere and lately sounding too similar to itself. Sure, a few vague details got my attention, but I’m a poseur and all the Muppet love in the world can’t make an album innovative or objectively meritorious; did I perhaps build my hopes too high only to find yet another band trying to be either Ulcerate or Agalloch?

Turns out I didn’t set my hopes anywhere near high enough; though I likely would have shamelessly gobbled up anything charred, what I got instead was a trvly exquisite obsidian morsel, unique and addicting in its own right whilst drawing favorable comparisons to such purveyors of blackened excellence as Soothsayer and Amestigon, among dark others. One could call this atmospheric black metal, but make no mistake: this isn’t dance-through-the-tears Deafheaven-core, but rather a super-massive black hole of bleak moods and murderous soundscapes which evoke all the best negative imagery a Muppet could hope for. “Extension to Nothingness” maybe a touch more Drudkh-ian than the rest of Unsettling Whispers, but even this much is done in a Blood in Our Wells manner, as opposed to the Mirrors in Our Navels way of Drudkh-ing things, and never does it relinquish any of the pitch-black savagery replete throughout the album. Gaerea crawl and claw their way through doom, death metal, sludge, and all manner ov malevolent metal-ings as they seethe through 42 minutes of blackened majesty, and the end result is more varied and ambitious than anything I can recall black metal giving us this year.

Unsettling Whispers opens with unsettling whispers and a delightfully dour buildup of brooding ambiance, walking a thin black line between Soothsayer and Zhrine as “Svn” coalesces into a seething state of violent euphoria with Ulcerate undertones, only for this fury expand further still into the somewhat more traditional blackness of “Absent.” This sense of ebb and flow is crucial to the album, utilized brilliantly between tracks as well as within the songs themselves. “Cycle of Decay” makes particularly tremendous use of this willingness to let the songs explore themselves, slithering between ominous tension and unbridled fury in an ever-shifting tumult which blends stylistic bits of Ancst, Gorguts and Amestigon into just under five minutes of refreshingly original-sounding turmoil. Even among the ambiance and dim post-metal lighting of “Whispers,” Gaerea refuse to sit still for long and for 7 seriously fucking grim tracks this strategy seriously fucking works, but… but…

But fucking nothing. Over a month of spinning the album has yet been unable to shake the freshness of its feel; Unsettling Whispers feels important, as though birthed at that black pinnacle which every generation of metal makes a pilgrimage to in order to crown the next Celtic Frost, Deathspell Omega, or any other obsidian monarch whose works become essential things ov legend. Given the forward-thinking and multifaceted nature of this malignant gem, I’d begrudgingly classify Gaerea‘s sound as progressive-black; Applying viciously grim traditional shrieks to sinister tremolo picking ov olde and dissonant, modern-age blastery with much more nuance than is customary for either, this sophomore effort displays total mastery of all known generations of black metal while pushing its charred history into the future, and suddenly that future looks a whole lot brighter. Or darker. Perspectives and puns will vary, but it is almost certain that Gaerea have created the kind of album that clones are made of, if you wish to be on the right side of history you need to grab this one pretty much immediately.

With the nightmarish atmospheric sensibilities of Celtic Frost, the pummeling violence of Deathspell Omega, the sheer evil of Gorgoroth and a Behemoth ear for headbanging, Gaerea have gathered the souls of black metals most hallowed ov icons and given them somewhere they can finally move on to in Unsettling Whispers. Riffs, dissonance, ambient lulls and apocalyptic levels of aggression… it’s all here, and for once it feels like it’s moving forward. I have been impressed into a state of sans complaint by Unsettling Whispers, and it is only a deep-seated fear of meeting HMG that kept me from 5-ing what I suspect may prove to be a much-needed catalyst for blackened momentum. If this is Gaerea whispering, I can’t fucking wait to see what will come when this Portuguese enigma starts screaming.

Rating: 4.5/5.0
DR: 4 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Transcending Obscurity Records
Websites: gaerea.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/gearea
Releases Worldwide: June 22nd, 2018

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