Alright, fvckers, open up those wail-holes and get those gnashers ready. Today’s Angry Metal Offering is not only more doom, it’s more doom. California’s Amarok give zero fucks for your patience or your pitiful attention span, and they take over an hour to inform you of this on their debut full-length – Devoured. Continuing a story that began in 2012 with a self-titled EP, Devoured plods onward with four new chapters, two of which slowly rage on in excess of twenty minutes… hey, get back in the hall, I’ve still got a bunch of words left!

Amarok aren’t just another face among the planet caravan of Sabbath honoring pilgrims taking over Bandcamp these days. Sure, there’s an Iommic feel to moments within “VII Rat Tower,” but this largely isn’t that kind of doom. These Californians create twisted, colossal soundscapes of dark distortion and unsettling feedback, not retro rehashing, but rather the very sound of doom itself. Despair is certainly in the air, chiefly caused by caustic clouds of chugged contempt churning from the fretboard with a despondent reek and pacing similar to Salome, often simmering in a stifling steam of feedback before violently lashing out with fierce snarls of post-poisoned sludge which recall The Rodeo Idiot Engine‘s darkest moments. Given the versatility of the music and intensity of the pervading shrieks, there are even moments throughout Devoured which resemble aforementioned Texas birth-machine far more strongly than traditional doom. Though lengthy as all Hell, any given track on Devoured sees the band incorporating elements of sludge, post metal, blackened avant garde insanity and all things desolate, making it rather difficult to pigeonhole Amarok as just another sludge-sprinkled doom act.

This very versatility and somewhat undoomy doomness is a critical component of Devoured, and it is this fluidity that allows all 76 minutes of the album to downright fly by at times. For example, see “VI Sorceress”: Opener and second biggest behemoth of the bunch, it begins by building a beautiful bit of baleful acoustic bidness into a beast of brooding, blackened post-metal badassery that blows up into a blend of Bell Witch and Usnea  before a feedback bloodletting which ebbs into the bleak beginning of “VII.”  Doom may be an appropriate tag when considering the pacing and song lengths here, and yet to brush Amarok off as just another doom act would be inaccurate and ill advised as the quartet’s collective sensibility for stylistic shifts allows them to twist and turn through tonal trails in a manner that will keep fans held fast within the jaws of Devoured. This is largely made possible by giving themselves ample room within each track to slowly whip themselves into a shrieking cacophony, rather than rushing in headlong with rehashed riffs set to repeat for roughly 5-6 minutes.

Sometimes more is more, too, yet the massive song lengths undeniably render Devoured a challenging listen. Children of the Golden Age of Adderall and Twitter may struggle to endure merely reading this many words about a 4 song, 76-minute album, and while each track builds into unfailingly glorious and chaotic maelstroms, they also definitely take their time getting there. The latter half of the album comprises the relatively succinct “VIII Skeleton” and “IX Devoured” – 11 and almost 14 minutes, respectively – which effectively boosts the overall flow of Devoured, but this shift into warp speed may arrive too late for those whose attention spans are laid to waste by the preceding 45 minutes. Additionally, “VI” pushes the envelope ov squeals about as far as can be withstood, stretching a skull-piercing swath of feedback into a maundering outro that almost hurts before it actually ends; Utilizing the musical equivalent of nails on a chalkboard so extensively is a bold move to begin with, but the intensity and durations exhibited on “VI” are damn near assault, and this level of forced discomfort is sure to pair poorly with the monolithic run-times for many a listener. However, those who survive the onslaught are rewarded with moments of serene  minimalism and pensive post processions, all of which restore balance to the album and sanity to the listener in a prodigious display of keen song writing.

Prepare for mind-blowage: ultimately, enjoyment of this album will vary among listeners. The songcrafting really is quite effective and rewarding if one has the palette and patience for this kind of thing, but those with fleeting attention spans, faint hearts and fragile ear drums (seriously, “VI”‘s feedback is practically weapons-grade) should probably just shuffle on and spare themselves a triggering. I, however, am not too mortal to properly enjoy of deep Devoured, so 3.5 it is. Bitches.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Translation Loss Records
Websites: amarok.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/amarokdoom
Releases Worldwide: June 22nd, 2018

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Knock knock, open up the door: it’s real metal! Non-stop and popping, it’s Steel and crew going hard and getting busy dropping trvth bombs on everybody’s asses. Here at AMG, a squad of rough writers rolls through the block, putting in work for all you kids who don’t know where the Hooded Menace is at, and it ain’t about the dough; it’s about being down for what you all stand for, fuck waiting for you to get it on your own. AMG is all about that chug life, his homies find the metal and share the wealth, and we all say thank ya. However, creeping within the Angry Metal Ranks is a wolf in sheep’s clothing; they don’t know who he be, but he doesn’t care about any of you, and he’s got a whole bunch of dreaded metalcore up his sleeve… and Muppet‘s gon’ give it to ya.

So you’ve probably figured out by now that Germany’s Whiteriver are about as kvlt as Crocs. Guitarists Daniel Wurm and Marvin Roth do loud, chuggy things and lay down some high-gain goodness from time to time, and drummer Christian Süper has no problem beating some sensible aggression into the album as needed, but make no mistake: this… is… METALCORE! Well, that’s what you cretins would likely call Warmth, though the band themselves bill their brand of sound-stuff as “ambient melodic hardcore”. Given their frequent — and frequently overdone — forays into reverb-riddled clean passages which unfailingly break down into B-grade breakdowns and hooky angst — so, you know, “metalcore” — the band may actually be on to something there. Whatever the case, the trve and elite may as well move on, this one’s not for you. For those who have heart, though: you deserve nothing and I hope you get less, so here’s some Whiteriver.

Stylistically speaking, sonic surprises are scarcely seen amongst the structural scenery of Warmth. There are 2 throwaway ambient interludes, there are edgy monologues, there are breakdowns visible from miles away, and the vocals are identical to the roughly 836,267,444 bands trying to be Silverstein. Furthermore, for all the technical flair of their forefathers, the fretwork here often feels fairly flavorless and unfulfilling; I’ll not mince words, there’s very little in the way of originality going on here, and almost no zazz to speak of. For 12 tracks and 43 minutes, Warmth angsts its way through fields of formulaic ‘core modeling, keeping to the trails mapped out by acts such as Blessthefall or We Came as Romans and taking zero compositional risks the whole time. If anything experienced within the walls of Warmth manages to surprise you, you’re probably too young to be here in the first place.

Though Whiteriver take very few creative stabs with Warmth, this isn’t to say that the album is entirely ineffectual. The guitar tones here are warm and gorgeous, and the dual vocal performance is as solid as anyone else’s in the genre. Indeed, everyone’s performance on Warmth is passable and passionate, it’s just that no one is doing anything to add any real definition to Whiteriver‘s identity. To wit, that identity is as follows: one part Surroundings vocals, two half-parts August Burns Red guitars and a dash of a store-brand rhythm section. The flavor here may be almost too familiar, yet when served with the undeniably energetic conviction heard in each member’s playing the result is enjoyable enough to somewhat belie its lack of ambition or uniqueness. Whiteriver resemble a deconstructed Architects on “For Life”, a defoliated August Burns Red on “Fall”, and a de-awesomed Erra on “Royal Blood”; Everyone can play their instruments and the sonic palette utilized is palatable enough, however, none of this is enough to make Warmth much more than playlist filler.

Though the tools and talent to turn this troop of intrepid Thrice-lings are truly there, taking the time to trace their own trail of tears – instead of trying to be twins of their tonal touchstones – should have happened but didn’t, and as a result, we got Lukewarmth. Enjoyable enough, perhaps, and fans of the genre will certainly be able to get some miles out of this but don’t be surprised when the road repeatedly reroutes to revisit the core that came before. To the tweens up in here reading through tears of angsty bafflement over this, like, totally unfair trashing of their newfound spirit animal: leave the hall, y’all gon’ make me lose my mind.

Rating: 2.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Redfield Records
Websites: whiteriverde.bandcamp.com | whiteriver-music.com |facebook.com/whiteriveroffical
Releases Worldwide: July 6th, 2018

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I mean, really. Come and Chutney? By fucking Chubby Thunderous Bad Kush Masters?? Well played, you Chubby London fucks; you have my attention. Billed as FFO Weedeater, Bongzilla, Black Sabbath, and… and fucking Vengaboys?! Well now, I’m as elated as a child at an amusement park. The sonic playground that is stoner doom offers plenty of room for fun to be had, and anyone not even remotely intrigued by that ridiculous namedrop can fuck off all the way to Ibiza. Unless you’re, like, Ibizan, in which case I guess just fuck off further away. Either way, everybody not busy fucking off, follow me. We’ve got some fucking off to do.

So, yeah, surprise surprise: Come and Chutney is not particularly serious fare. From that less than stoic band image to guitarist/vocalist Owen Carty’s simplistic lyrics and the sounds of bong rips being followed by butt rips (farts, if we’re being scientific) on “Gutlads”, Come and Chutney is largely the work of three dudes from London screwing around for 8 tracks. Instrumentally speaking, that time is spent on a burn cruise through desert- and stoner-doom territory, toking on the peace pipes of Motherslug and Father Sabbath alike. With a loose, organic vibe and a warm, fuzzy tone, the trio brings a refreshing liveliness to the doom plate, injecting a jam-band zeal into their riffy stew that shines particularly brightly in “Psychedelic Hallucinogenic Vagrancy”. As riff after Weedeat-ing riff is rolled out, the band’s chemistry and the fun they’re having is audible throughout the entirety of Come and Chutney, and this very unity is essentially the album’s greatest strength.

Fun and frivolous though they are, the familiarity of Carty’s riffs when compared to green-leaf gods such as Sabbath or Bongzilla is undeniable to the point of almost sacrificing originality entirely… Almost. While fans of the genre aren’t likely to hear anything particularly groundbreaking in the fuzzy tone or riffy library, the audible earnestness of the band rings through the sonic shag carpet in every note. Tracks such as “Krones of the Kiln” and “Glue Ear” deliver the goods no matter who they remind you of, aided to great extent by Carty’s Chad Grey-does-Nazareth screech and the punky pentameter with which said screeching is screeched. The vocals on Come and Chutney are certainly not for everyone but damned if it doesn’t sound like the dude’s having a blast with every rusty word. Those words won’t win any awards any time soon (I can appreciate the effort on “Döner Trump”, but those lyrics… SAD!) but sometimes less is more, even in the eloquence department.

Less would certainly be more in the songwriting department of Come and Chutney, as the jam-band nature of the London trio invariably leads to a spot of excess waffling in almost every song; The reefer-riddled, retro-rocking riffs of the record occasionally meander about more dazed and confused than flying high (again), somewhat undercutting the enjoyability of an otherwise fairly fresh and frankly fucking fun take on stoner doom. Riffalicious and irreverent as it is, “Doggy Bag of Slurry” in particular simply has no business approaching the eight-minute mark, and while the song lengths for the remainder of the album are typically more concise 5-ish minute affairs, they still have a tendency to get lost in overdrawn passages of fuzzy fuck-offery. There’s enough going on at any given time that some listeners might not even fault the band for occasionally lolling about aimlessly, but I am not one of those listeners. With so much energy and chemistry at play here, it seems a shame that the songwriting of Come and Chutney tends to render the Chubby goodness just a bit too bloated to abide.

All in all my biggest complaint regarding this album stems from being lied to. Sure, Chubby Thunderous Bad Kush Masters could use some fat-trimming, and I can’t see the lyrics here rocking anyone’s world, but given how fun and honest this record is I can hardly consider either offense too great. No, I really don’t have much in the way of complaints here, but those Chubby fucks sound like Vengaboys for exactly 0 seconds on Come and Chutney, and they’re lucky I don’t give them a 0.0 for breaking my heart like that. However, if you’re willing to forgive them and are looking for a fuzzy romp through a haze of smoke and sophomoric wit, try a taste of… erm… dive on in to… nope… Oh, fuck it, just go check out the album already.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Riff Rock Records
Websites: chubbythunderousbadkushmasters.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/chubbythunderousbadkushmasters
Releases Worldwide: July 13th, 2018

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Get your shitkickers on and nightlights ‘n Prozac at the ready, yo, today we’re going somewhere filthy and utterly devoid of light or joy. France’s Atavisma will be dragging us pleasantly by the throat through a subterranean and sinister network ov nightmares which they call The Chthonic Rituals. I’m just here to narrate the whole ordeal and giggle as you lot wail and bump into each other in the dark. You’ll find out for yourself just how much life lurks within these shadows — and whether or not any of it’s lethal — but one malignant trvth will shine in every corner of this dark: there will be no happiness here.

The Chthonic Rituals is a dark collection of music: 8 tracks of grim ‘n grimy death metal whose sole purpose of existence is pummeling the joy out of you. Atavisma utilize melody and atmospherics to equal malignant effect, alternating between cold and eerily quiet coils of Convulse calm and insidious Incantation riffs for roughly fifty minutes. This feral fluidity is the lifeblood of The Chthonic Rituals; listeners are routinely treated to seizure-inducing levels of cacophony à la fellow countrymen Deathspell Omega and subsequently treated for the resultant psychosis with unsettling tranquil respite, only to be immediately re-pulverized upon recovery. This tug-of-war against the audience’s sanity ensures that every moment of Rituals feels like it’s propelling the whole hellacious thing forward. Even the obligatory instrumental opener “Chthonic” has teeth, and the flow of this fetid foray into the foulest of songs is downright unfuckwithable.

In many ways, The Chthonic Rituals feels like a superior version of Abstracter‘s Cinereous Incarnate. Where that album lolled about in a fog of sludge and listless atmospheres, Atavisma strive to maintain a more balanced approach. The charred fruit of their labors yields a more engaging and rewarding bounty unto this debut effort than some of the scene’s staple acts. “Monoliths” is a simmering thing of obsidian malice that one could almost mistake for an undiscovered Convulse gem, instrumentally speaking. Likewise, closer “A Subterranean Life” will take listeners who were underwhelmed by Cinereous Incarnate straight to the death-doom mountaintop. The guitars lurk a touch further back in the mix than one might expect, and this move allows the stringed offerings to blend, rather than compete. The bass could certainly be allowed to stand out or explore more, yet the absence of life’s impact on the low end is rendered minimal by the rest of the band’s cohesive strength. When “Sacrifice Unto Babalon” reaches its violent death metal culmination after weaving its way through sludge and doom misery, the payout sounds so massive that adding any more levels to it would essentially be a needless and likely futile endeavor.

As the predictable puppet that I am, you precious peeps are probably preparing yoselves for me to shit on the as-of-yet undiscussed vocals. Well, the joke’s on you, fvckers, because there are no vocals here! Sure, someone/something known only as L gurgles and grunts some trvly myopic lyrics throughout the turmoil, but such is their diminished presence in the mix that it hardly seems appropriate to equate his performance to the traditional role of vocalist. Screams and such exist almost as accentuating instrumentals on this album, with Incantationy Nathan Explosions serving to strengthen the music from within itself as opposed to doing his thing on top of it all. Thanks to this interesting approach, much of The Chthonic Rituals plays like an instrumental album, except for the fact that this stuff is actually interesting. No molds were broken in the making of this album, and I don’t profess this to a list-breaker by any means, yet fans of cavernous death metal are likely to find more than a few nuggets of wretched gold in the depths of this French filth.

“Interesting” in death metal is becoming a rarity for me as my Muppet tooth grows long and I unwillingly enjoy of deep cynicism. Yet here I am, dancing in the dark with Atavisma instead of crying about the little world of death metal falling apart. From the slithering Incantations of “Extraneous Abysmal Knowledge” to the partially Ulcerated “A Subterranean Life”, this is some interesting stuff indeed. The Chthonic Rituals is an expedition into the darkest, dirtiest depths of death metal, lit by murderous riffs and smoldering ambient piles of burning optimism. Anyone feeling let down by Cinereous Incarnate would do well to take that journey.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Memento Mori
Websites: atavisma.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/atavisma.band
Releases Worldwide: July 23rd, 2018

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Oh, life. It’s bigger than you, and you are not me, but there are some truths which we all hold to be self-evident no matter who we are. Examples of such universal certainties include that you will breathe oxygen under a blue sky, fire will be hot eleven times out of ten, and that, one day, you will die. Most do their damnedest to disarm that last trvth bomb, but it’s the only thing Germany’s Arkuum are thinking about on their sophomore effort, Die Letzte Agonie. With a fittingly foreboding production and a staunch refusal to smile, one man fatalist army Arkas cradles that aforementioned bombshell like a kvlt and cvddly baby, singing life itself to sleep with a 50-minute blackened lullaby. The question is, are you ready to die?

The real question is probably something along the lines of “is it good” with something pseudo-witty about snoozing thrown in, but this is atmo-black and I am Muppet so you were never gonna get a fair answer to begin with. Agonie explores the five stages of dying, as hypothesized by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, with each track attempting to sonically encapsulate its respective stage: denial, anger, grief, bargaining, and finally acceptance. Arkas employs a Satanic Warmaster snarl set to Anagnorisis-ish pacing to paint a picture of life through the eyes of the dying. Though my German is about as good as my Mandarin, there is an almost palpable conviction in every shriek, and you can practically wring the tears from his clean performance on “Handel.” Further aiding the vocal performance is its kvlt ov Goldilocks production: not too lo-fi as to sound like shit, and not so polished as to sound mechanical and sterile, but rather the vocals writhe and shine in that frost-bitten sweet spot that’s just right for such grim fare.

Grim (and possibly Grymm) fare this is, and Agonie is adorned in properly blackened tones and a dark atmospheric aesthetic. A live crew handles the task of unleashing these deathly hallows, but Arkas’ dark vision is realized alone in the studio. As such, much of this sounds like the million other one-man black metal acts that surface daily. This isn’t to say that the Violet Cold/A Swarm of the Sun atmospherics of “Zorn” aren’t depressingly wonderful — they, like, are — but it does make me wonder why seemingly all ov atmo-black wants to be None. Seriously, with enough patience and imagination, one could dissect any given track on this conceptually ambitious album and immediately recognize shards of None, Unreqvited, Chiral, and so many others embedded deep in this corpse. Given these comparisons, Arkuum‘s focus naturally centers around atmosphere. Very seldom does the instrumentation exhibit much in the way of technical tactics or otherwise riffy business. However, the music matches the mood of these musings on mortality to a fatal T, and, to some degree, that’s really all that matters.

Paradoxically — one might even say juxtaposing in nature — this wealth of somewhat similar sources of inspiration lends Agonie enough shades ov black to give each track its own identity. This is crucial, as each song hovers around the ten-minute mark where the threat of stagnant waffling is all too real. Arkas has no problem borrowing from everyone, but the tonal wealth he shares with Agonie is spread out evenly enough to keep every bit of this study on death very much alive. “Verzweiflung,” for example, is a lonely walk through Violet Cold RÛR-al territory featuring a morose passage punctuated by sobs, while the penultimate “Akzeptanz” begins as pvre Agalloch worship then soars into an ethereal ROSK post-metal cloud, coalescing into a reverberating blackened doom storm before breathing its last Unreqvited breath. The more aggressive “Verleugnug” and “Handel” drink deep from a Mavradoxan well ov Wiegedood waters. While there’s nothing particularly refreshing drawn from those depths, this depressive black draft should nonetheless slake the thirst of anyone looking for a little more fury with their feels.

Agonie won’t likely floor anyone with its compositional creativity, but the arrangements are nonetheless well constructed and engaging; if you’re looking for something soft and delicate as well as loud and out of key and you don’t care what it is, Arkuum are outside of your window with their radio. Go to them, enjoy of deep sadness, and sing this anthem of our dying day until your tears don’t just fall but crash around you.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
Format Reviewed: 255 kbps mp3
Label: Self-Released
Websites: arkuum.bandcamp.com | arkuum.de | facebook.com/arkuum
Releases Worldwide: August 4th, 2018

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Oh, Finland. Were the world ever to officially recognize any nation as the global Capital ov Melancholy, surely the Finnish would claim that tearful tiara. From Ghost Brigade to Insomnium to Ensiferum and all the nooks of negativity in between, it seems like something wicked depressing this way comes to us from thataway more often than not, and more often than not they end up wiping the mopey floor with the tear-soaked faces of everyone else seeking to lay claim to their downtrodden dominion. Hailing from this hallowed homeland of haunted hopelessness and hunting for a home in your heart are Lurk, a four-piece sludge-doom act who really know how to pick an album cover. Fringe is the band’s third full-length and, as you can probably guess, there will be no happiness here, but that’s not always a bad thing, is it?

It is not. “Ostrakismos” opens the whole sordid affair with some austere sludge, gradually introducing ambient effects and background shrieks before coalescing into some trvly eery doom; these are the fundamental building blocks for the remaining 7 tracks to come, and Lurk craft something sincerely sinister with each successive song. “Tale Blade” merges hints of Départe, Thou, and Antarktis into a hulking, skulking thing of crawling monolithic discord, while “Reclaim” incorporates a more riff-centric approach more closely related to the sludge of Neurosis meeting the blackened vision of Tchornobog. K. Koskinen lends a fierce and foreboding presence to the mix, shifting gears from guttural Meshuggah bellowing, Dodecahedron-y deranged shrieks, and creepy clean’s akin to Paradise Lost‘s Nick Holmes as needed. Hopelessness and heaviness haunt every inch of this thing; Fringe is as free from felicity as any of Finland’s finest forlorn offerings, and I couldn’t be happier.

The name of the game is unhappiness, but don’t look to Lurk for feels or a shoulder to cry on. Fringe is existential misery, the kind of misanthropic exploration that dives straight past sadness into incoherent depths of negative madness; by the time closer “Proteus Syndrome” comes to an end, lyrics such as ‘the pyre overflows/ exothermic process driven to cataclysm/ I feel the fire gnawing’ (“Furrow”) and ‘glacial aberration of the verdant/ eyes pound the bullpen’ (“Elan”) are all the listener has known for 44 harrowing minutes. This kind of grandiose malignance requires some instrumental care in order to grow into something trvly threatening, and Lurk are certainly up for this downer task. Reverb and atmospheric touches allow any lulls in aggression to retain all the insidious strength of the preceding cacophony, and A. Pulkkinen (ex- Satanic Warmaster)’s crunchy death tone throughout the fiercer moments of Fringe is a monster in its own right.

Further fortifying Fringe is its rhythmic foundation, which is seated slightly to the rear in the mix and yet is no less significant or otherwise structurally unsound for it. K. Nurmi has the chops and patience to switch between aggressive double-bass pedal-pounding percussion and pensive pauses for funereal passages of plodding doom, and lurking on the fringe of the focus allows everything to slither and swirl as one, shaping everything but overshadowing nothing. Really, everything about Fringe has a very cohesive, organic feel; it is a writhing, wretched thing that seethes and breathes, and much of this is thanks to the complimentary nature of the mix to the music. Given the ever-shifting ways of each track, Fringe is a lively experience through and through, and it feels every bit as virile and virulent as it sounds. Furthermore, the way the songs function together as a whole without relying on fade in/out studio stitch-work is impressive and refreshing, serving testament to the band’s songwriting skills and strengthening Fringe‘s overall play-through enjoyability.

If the Finnish doom tag combined with the fact that Fringe is a Transcending Obscurity release don’t have you sold yet, then listen to the voice of Muppety reason: buy this album, yo. Fringe is difficult to describe but an absolutely abhorrent delight to listen to, and anyone looking to hit that sweet n sour spot between agony and insanity would be remiss to miss out on this one. This Finnish clan ain’t nothing to fuck with, now wipe yourself off the hall floor and enjoy of deep Lurk.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Transcending Obscurity Records
Websites: lurkdoom.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/lurkdoom
Releases Worldwide: August 5th, 2018

The post Lurk – Fringe Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

The masochistic methodology of Muppetism makes for many messes, multiple missteps, and much more metalcore than mere mortals are meant to amass. I wouldn’t put up with my own bullshit if it didn’t come with perks, and thankfully one of said Muppet bonus features is an almost inability to not be entertained. Long story short: I dragged Vitae from the depths of the Angry Metal Punishment Puddle in hopes of delighting in the suffering of others, so here we are. The Hall doors are locked by now, anyway, so we might as well just accept what’s been set before us and check out this metalcore nonsense Set Before Us. Don’t be afraid to cringe or cry. It… pleases me.

Contain your shock, folks: Vitae is full of not-surprises, adhering strictly to the tried, trite, and certainly untrve ways of so much core that’s come before Set Before Us. Chuggy djentistry serves as a sort of sonic firmament for energetic melodies and lead work to romp upon, and each adventure follows a safe, yet somewhat scenic verse-chorus-verse-chorus-nonsense-chorus road to nowhere new. Variations of “Woe is me, for I’m all wounded and misunderstood and, like, still optimistic and deep” bounce between nasally cleans, A Day to Remember hardcore screams and garbled Deadlock growls with the kind of flow that wins the talent shows where these things belong but only makes life painfully boring when they find their way into the promo bin. Whiney clean vocals plea for understanding or else attempt to impart wisdom beyond their years before shifting into scream-mode to show you they mean business, emphasized by breakd000wns or shimmering, placid pauses as the moodiness calls for. If you’ve heard Bring Me the Horizon, Adept, and any angsty metal-ish teen, ever, you’ve essentially heard Vitae, simple as that.

Soundwise, these Swedes steal the sonic aesthetic of the sweet and similarly Swedish Adept; fans of Adept may find this new act to be a welcome gift, and I don’t particularly blame them, yet such is the similarity to the bands’ sounds that I’m still not entirely convinced Set Before Us aren’t just Adept from another, much more nasally dimension. Vocalist Erik Tropp picks his soul apart straight through his nose, delivering clean vocals with a register akin to Cove Reber (ex-Saosin) after attempting to clear his sinuses by huffing gravel, and yet this vaguely unique property is the only attribute to this whole thing that actually provides any semblance of personal identity to Vitae; The chunky, grooved rhythms are super similar to Surroundings, the bright and moody melodies came from Adept and Parkway Drive, and the effective yet inauspicious drums are bargain buys from Metalcor-Mart, but the nascent nasal nescience of “Charon” is SBU‘s and theirs alone… yay.

So, yeah, this particular batch of metalcore set before us is about as brilliant and original as abandoning your moving vehicle in order to film yourself dancing alongside it, but unlike the latter I don’t wish the purveyors of the former to keep on keepin’ on til they die. I want Set Before Us to stay in their vehicle, take a look at themselves in the mirror and all the other motherfuckers behind them heading to the same place, and jump the curb to take their own route. Sure, it’s more challenging to blaze a new trail, but SBU have the tools to do it, and the road they’re on currently is simply too congested. Tracks like “The Eternal Fight” and “Untainted” are energetic and enjoyable, and they clearly display the bands ability to play their parts with plenty of technical ability, but it’s all just so. Fucking. Safe. Enjoyment of Vitae will vary among listeners, but any sensations of surprise experienced after listening to “Ignite” must be reported to a doctor far, far away from the Hall.

Despite the harsh tone of this rant-piece, MoM isn’t angry, just disappointed. Adept‘s sound is as good as any to steal, but for fvck’s sake at least drive it like you stole it, yo: take those tones somewhere they can grow into passages and movements, don’t just cram them into the same cages that every other fucking band does! You’re better than this, Set Before Us, I can hear it in your playing and if you’re not going to go outside the box to play with your tonal toys, then give those nice Adept boys down the road their sound back and go sit in your room quietly to think about what you’ve done, and don’t come back out until you’re ready to be yourselves!

Rating: 2.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Eclipse Records
Websites: setbeforeus.bandcamp.com | Facebook.com/SetBeforeUs
Releases Worldwide: August 31st, 2018

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“Cinematic progressive metal.” Now there’s a tag rife with possibilities. Theatrical djent? Dream Theater 2.0? Coheed Jr and Cambriette? Prior to this review, I’d never heard of Australia’s Great Leap Skyward. Subsequently, I had no idea what I was in for when I rescued Map of Broken Dreams from Angry Metal Guy‘s Home for Wayward Promo. Trvthfully, I was hoping for a corn-riddled shit-heap to go full Muppet over and draft up a scavenger hunt to disappointment in lieu of a “normal” review, but it turns out this is actually a pretty solid album so I have to actually write a pretty solid review. I’m just as upset as you are.

Map of Broken Dreams may reveal a direct route to prog metal joy, but the scenic genre tour it takes the listener on is about as direct as Bell Witch are speed metal. A song might begin with industrial ambiance, or maybe desert-y flamenco guitars (“Junkyard Planet” and “Sepulcral y Sin Nombre,” respectively) but before long it’s doing something else, maybe something proggy or maybe something downright blackened. Before that dust can settle, BAM! Doom it up a notch! BAM! Here’s some power metal! BAM! Have some djent! I say BAM! because I’m ridiculous, yet the band’s frequent changes in genre direction are anything but jarring, and never are they needless exercises in sonic wankery. The flamenco bit is a tad unexpected, and there’re some gang-vocals “Hey! Hey! Hey!” nonsense towards the end of “Sepulcral y Sin Nombre” that could just as soon maybe not happen ever again — and thankfully doesn’t — but “less is more” wins again with every genre leap skyward, and the ease with which any given song glides through any given genre is impressive and effective no matter how you spin it.

That GLS know their way around a genre convention or thirty will come as no surprise to in-the-know proglodytes; this may be GLS‘s debut album, but GLS is Australian prog supergroup Knightmare‘s sophomore incarnation, and the collective wisdom and experience of its members is ridiculously apparent in every song. Besides the wealth of varying musical influences to be discovered along the 8 track journey, even a novice Angry Metal Progling will recognize the seasoned strength evident in the dynamic songwriting of Map of Broken Dreams. Beyond the seamless nature of the transitions themselves, the songs actually do transition and morph into distinct passages, rather than applying a new tonal varnish to a core melody every 6 measures or so. The overall effect is comparable to the cinematic flow of Coheed and Cambria‘s conceptual compositions, and this tonal fluidity is by far GLS‘s greatest strength. Honestly, I’m already all kinds of curious as to where these Aussies will take their smorgasbord of sounds next.

So it probably sounds like these guys sound pretty sweet so far, but just what do they sound like? There is no straightforward answer to that, as each song changes too frequently to be contained within any single descriptor, but the short answer: GLS sound awesome, yo. “I am the Black Matriarch” is a hard-hitting hodgepodge of TesseracT, Draconian, and Dream Theater, whereas “Kindred” offers something to the effect of Ne Obliviscaris with an Enshine finish. Tool-y modern Katatonia prog flourishes grace “Junkyard Planet” amidst soaring power metal choruses, and all of it just fucking works. The vocals largely linger in that clean yet slightly gravely sweet spot between prog and power metal and are delivered as tastefully and skillfully as everything else on Broken Dreams, yet there is more than enough excellent Dimmu screaming throughout the album to keep the more extreme crowd satisfied. Given the downright cinematic way that this metal album progresses through its 52 minutes, I can see Map of Broken Dreams making a prog believer out of the most kvlt and brutal our listeners. Well, the honest ones anyway.

Given the presence of palatable power parmesan, the lack ov deep black sadness, and the daunting promo bin genre tag, I should hate this; I want to hate Map of Broken Dreams, it’s deeply rooted in anti-Muppet music and my dreams of unconventional review nonsense were dashed before the titular album opener was so much as two minutes in, yet my only complaint about GLS‘s ‘debut’ is that they didn’t give me anything to complain about, those selfish fvcks. Thanks for ruining everything, GLS, I hope you choke on that rating knowing that your magnificent works come at the cost of broken Muppet dreams.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Metalapolis Records
Websites: greatleapskyward.com | facebook.com/greatleapskyward
Releases Worldwide: August 31st, 2018

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When it’s time to familiarize myself with any given Angry Metal Homework Review Assignment, I listen to said album non-stop for as many spins as my time constraints allow. Fortunately, the nature of my real/other job finds me outdoors and listening to music more often than not, which may or may not account for a rather drastic positive shift in my overall outlook on life. Unfortunately, this also meant that most of my listening time with the thing we’re about to discuss was spent weed-whacking in 93+ degree temperatures for roughly forever, which may or may not account for the rather drastic and negative stance I hold regarding Burning Ad Infinitum: A Collaboration, a joint effort between Gnaw Their Tongues and Crowhurst.

In many ways, this collaboration makes perfect sense. The lo-fi, chaotic-noise aesthetic of Gnaw Their Tongues is a very natural direction for the experimental drone of Crowhurst to wander off to, and vice versa. Given the prolific nature of GTT‘s Maurice de Jong and Crowhurst mastermind Jay Gambit, it’s also pretty much par for the course that these two noise mongers eventually crossed paths and left some tracks in their wake. Burning finds the two fuelling each other’s visceral sonic tendencies with an admittedly impressive sense of organic cohesion, and by all means this compositional chemistry sounds good on paper, but it ends there. I’m genuinely bummed to be the bearer of bad news, but from my horribly oppressive cage of objectivity, subjectivity, political correctness and – most importantly – Muppet correctness, I am able to live with saying that Burning sounds like shit.

I don’t intend to put down or even describe the musical output of either party responsible for the crimes committed here with that statement. Both artists have demonstrated their respective abilities to craft engaging compositions within their given sonispheres, and Burning doesn’t negate this truth with its existence. Indeed, the 4 track ‘album’ is a pretty straightforward union of experimental noise and the grim aesthetic of the lowest of lo-fi blackness… I think. Beyond the collaboration’s heavy emphasis on its noise elements, the lo-fi factor is so overwhelming that I’m not convinced this isn’t a cellphone recording of a cellphone recording of a Yak Bak recording. Everything here is so squashed and buried that it’s almost impossible to discern any actual musical activity going on at any given point, let alone enjoy any of it. Sure, there’s at least a second or two of “The Divinity of Our Great Perversions” that I don’t entirely loathe, and… no, wait, that’s actually it.

I genuinely respect the collaborative effort put into Burning, but the fatally stifling mix renders the whole ordeal all but unlistenable. This is almost certainly the point, yet success in that mission ultimately comes at the cost of me failing to understand why one would even bother to record this, let alone pay to hear it. Industrial noise and sinister ambiance with minimal discernible instrumental contributions droning on for 37 minutes is likely a tough enough sell to begin with, burying everything under static and a mix that even Varg would decry only makes things frustrating to the point of being offensive. Factor in that all of this un-joy is to be had only after enduring the 9-minute drone of opener “Nothing’s Sacred”, and each listen feels more like a slap in the face than the last. I can hear de Jong screaming, and that’s about it: what am I supposed to describe if that’s all there is to describe? Surely there’s an audience for this – it’s a thing, after all – but Muppet is not amused. Burning is the sound of tortured screams heard from just outside Jigsaw’s basement, and not in a good way.

By now, I’ve said everything I can say about Burning without turning this into a straight-up rant. If static with a hint of screaming is your thing, by all means check this out and feel free to berate me with a rant of your own on just how much I don’t get what’s going on here. However, after at least 30 or so listens, I can only contend that either I’ll never get it or else there’s really nothing to get. Any and all musical activity on Burning is utterly suffocated, there simply isn’t enough audible instrumentation for me to wax reviewical on and my favorite thing about it is that I’ll never have to listen to it again now that this ‘review’ is done.

Rating: 0.5/5.0
DR: ? | Format Reviewed: 256 kbps mp3
Label: Crown and Throne Ltd Records
Websites: gnawtheirtongues/bandcamp.com | facebook.com/gnawtheirtongues | crowhurst/bandcamp.com | facebook.com/crowhurstnoise
Releases Worldwide: August 31st, 2018

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If there’s any country you can trust to surrender untold riches ov blackened gold after relatively little investigative prodding, it’s France. Harboring such harbingers of box-breaching blackness as Alcest, Deathspell Omega, and Blut Aus Nord, the French black metal scene is very much alive and mentally unwell, and in France Muppet trusts. Muppet also trusts in Transcending Obscurity Records to the extent that a French black metal act appearing on their roster would normally be the epitome of Master-bait music.¹ Yet when France’s P.H.O.B.O.S. found themselves facedown on the floor in front of the Angry Metal Promo Pyre, I was hesitant to save them from the flames of non-reviewdom. I trvst in French black metal, and I trust in Transcending Obscurity Records, but dare I trust anything tagged as ‘industrial doom/black metal’?

I dare, yo. Phlogiston Catharsis is colored in venomous genre shading that’ll certainly ward off weaker Angry Metal Predators, but open-minded heaviness hunters may be pleasantly surprised by the bounty ov blackened goodness to be found here. Given the garbled, guttural vocals and the menacing atmosphere that comprises Phlogiston Catharsis, I often felt like I was listening to an unholy union of Dunkelwerk and Convulsing, or maybe a Dodecahedron remix by Psyclon Nine. Such is the focus on the industrial side of things that it might almost be fairest to categorize this as dark electronica, yet I would hardly hold that against the album after having listened to it so many times. This one is sure to be panned on principle by the proud and pvrest ov the trve, but you don’t have to make that mistake. I won’t tell anyone that you enjoyed something so close to the edge of not-metal. I’ll judge you, sure, but that was always going to be the case.

Remember me bitching recently about a certain aural abortion which was similarly fueled by industrial noise, tortured screaming, and a grimy aesthetic? Given the common genre denominators between this and that, I can’t think of a better way to describe Phlogiston Catharsis than as an album where that formula actually computes and results in something significantly more successful. Openerer “Biomorphorror” establishes this right out the gate, and sets the tone for the remaining seven tracks to come by putting all the band’s weapons on display for nearly seven minutes. Thick, reverberating drums accentuated with percussive industrial atmospheres propel grim guitars à la Incantation through extra terrestrial sonic scenery, and the Dodecahedron-in-an-echo-chamber growls lend the whole ordeal a sense of organic madness that makes this cybernetic hallucination feel real and very much alive. Where Burning failed to raise more than smoke and Muppet ire, the cleaner-burning machinery of P.H.O.B.O.S. effectively burns down preconceived notions of its genre-sake and raises horns and heads in its wake, and it’s nice to see black metal taken somewhere so dangerous yet come out relatively unharmed.

While P.H.O.B.O.S. wield their otherworldly weaponry with a sense of poise and rationality, I’d still be remiss not to chime in with a “haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamned door and not letting all the stank out?” I say this because, for all the imaginative genre blending going on, it feels like much of the creative compositional wind got let out in the first track. Sure, I enjoy “Taqiyah Rhyzom” and “Neurasthen Logorrh” well enough, but I’d be hard pressed to identify one from the other from a 15-second clip of either. This comes not from unimaginative riffing—for the riffs n’ rhythms definitely do vary from song to song—but rather from the somewhat heavy handed application of industrial elements. Most of the album churns along at a mid to low tempo. With the constant clanging of machinery always at the forefront, things start to blend together quite quickly. To that end, the material serves as excellent background music, and everything here would flesh out a Drug Honkey, Mesarthim and Godflesh-centric playlist quite soundly.

This sonic cyborg isn’t going to steal your clothes and terminate everything in its path, yet Phlogiston Catharsis is far removed from the gaudy, goofy Inspector Gadget genreloid that I had feared. A niche album, to be sure, and one that could stand to mix just a little more life in with its mechanical madness, yet P.H.O.B.O.S. are nonetheless masters of their strange set of sounds and Phlogiston Catharsis is certainly something worth exploring. Resistance is futile, yo, you know you’re gonna click that embed to see what the fvss is about.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Transcending Obscurity Records
Website: facebook.com/phobosindustrial
Releases Worldwide: September 5th, 2018

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Picture this, if you will. It’s Friday night, for at least a little while longer anyway. The air is thick with smoke and raised voices, illuminated only vaguely by various neon signs and their reflections off countless bottles and glasses. Here at the Angry Metal Bikerer Bar®, the music matches the mood: from a cramped corner masquerading as a stage, four angry metal guys unleash gravely growls and swagtastic riffage unto the leather and denim-clad patrons with a gritty little ditty titled “Ain’t No Party ‘Til You Hurt Somebody.” Welcome home, yo. The spirits of metal and rock ‘n roll are present tonight at this family meeting ov Jørn‘s children, brought to you by Betzefer in a vulgar display of power straight outta… Israel?!

Formed in ’98 and having released three full-lengths and as many EP’s along the way, these guys aren’t exactly an unfamiliar face to some in the Hall/crowd, yet Betzefer aren’t exactly household names either… yet. Entertain Your Force of Habit seeks to break into your house and get you to do shots with it, like some kind of metal Santa/Kool-Aid Man amalgamation that wrecks the place but leaves riff presents among the rubble. Grooves and aggression recalling Pantera with just a dash of Sacrament era Lamb of God romp their way through nearly forty minutes, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t welcomed them back with each and every spin of the album. Entertain Your Force of Habit has proven to be one of my most fun listens all year. I didn’t see that coming but there’s still time for you to learn from my mistakes.

The name of the game is Riffs, and Betzefer may as well be Charlie and the Sheens. With riffs and grooves for decades, Force of Habit comprises the staple sounds of hard rock and wraps it all in modern metal tones and production. Wammy-bar bursts, relentless drum work, and whiskey-soaked Anselmo-esque growls flourish in the sonic environment that Betzefer call home, as does the band itself. The fervor of Aharon Raagoza’s pissed-off Panteric pipes is practically palpable, propelling this already charged performance to a place of pure power (don’t worry, not that kind of power). Furthermore, I defy anyone to listen without banging their heads to the Lamb of Pantera groove of “Light Away,” or the Devildriver-meets-The Necromancers swagger of opener “One Way to No Way.” Pick any of the album’s 10 tracks and you’ll see that Betzefer rock and roll all day long, sweet Susie.

Here’s the part where I complain about stuff. First of all, I think Journey are ridiculously overrated and I hate that I hear them everywhere. Second, I think it’s bullshit that I can’t make a milkshake without a bunch of boys popping up in my yard. I also greatly dislike toes in general. Do you see where I’m going with this? With its excellent mix, infinite grooving riffage and sheer contempt for necks everywhere, Force of Habit has headbanged itself a complaint-less hole in my heartsicles. Things fly along full-throttle from start to finish, yet there’s a certain dynamic sensibility to the song structures that prevent the onslaught from ever feeling too overwhelming or rushed, and looping the album has become… well, a force of habit. When I say the Napalm Death-tinged Orange Goblinry of “Truck Leaking Gasoline” is fun, I don’t mean the NFO kind that you should be ashamed of, but rather the kind depicted in the music video for Lamb of God‘s “Redneck” that we all should strive for. With horns and middle fingers raised as high as the volume, Betzefer have crafted the kind of album that taps into the riffing heart of metal itself and reminds me just why I love this kind of music so much.

As the world continues to divide itself along imaginary lines of race and nationality, it makes me proud as a metalhead to hear the sound of my musical family ringing loud and clear from across so many miles. Force of Habit is one for the riff fan in all of us, the one that will always bang their head to Pantera and Mötörhead even if we typically writhe along to Dodecahedron or prog out to the lofty likes of Dream Theater. Welcome Betzefer into your home, celebrate with them as they tear the place up. By the time the album’s over, you’ll be right there with them and loving every second of it. What’s a little cleaning up and some new windows?

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Metalville Records
Websites: betzefer.bandcamp.com | betzefer.net | facebook.com/betzefer
Releases Worldwide: September 21st, 2018

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If you could read my mind, yo, what a tale my Muppety thoughts would tell. Music has been a lifelong medium for channeling the nonsense that rattles around my skull; notes and melodies swirl into colors, percussion and atmospheres shape landscapes, while tone and pacing flesh it all out into specific characters. Music is a visual experience for me, so much so that when I see something instrumental smoldering in the Angry Metal Heap ov Dreams, I grow curious rather than cautious. Such was the case with Cataya‘s Firn, and I met its four-track challenge with all kinds of optimism: I ain’t afraid of no vox.

Firn is an atmospheric post-metal dish with just a dash ov black metal, hold the vocals. Hearkening more closely to atmoblack of the Vvilderness variety than the wicious ways ov Wiegedood, Cataya craft calm and colorful compositions, occasionally creeping into dark and dangerous tonality, but never getting downright violent or brutal. The most aggressive moments of Firn, such as the energetic, crunchy chugging vis-à-vis “Vis-à-Vis,” bear more resemblance to moody prog than to even the atmo-est ov black metal. The less aggressive moments, aka 80% of the album, evoke shimmering and decidedly tranquil images reminiscent of seeing silent scenery softly swallowed by snowfall. There’s a journey to be had along the way, yet the adventure that is Firn is comparable to the “adventure” that is the Lord of the Rings film trilogy: fans of the genre are sure to revel in the subtleties and minor flares, but to many this may just feel like an awful lot of walking.

To that end, it would be remiss to label the largely subdued nature of Firn as a detriment. Sure, it’s not a riffalicious voyage through the untamed wilderness of Scale the Summit, but nor is it the tepid Sunday drive of Coldbones. Cataya do their wordless thing in a Russian Circular way where atmosphere is of the utmost importance without sacrificing sonic inertia. The end result is an album that boldly posits the world-shattering notion that less can be more. “Madera Sagrada” will not floor you with progged-out fretboard wankery, but it will briskly jaunt with you through a tranquil forest of snow and starlight, and therein lies the beauty of Firn. If environment-specific vibe-age is your thing, there’s a pretty good chance that this album is up your alley to the point of rendering sitting down impossible. Little is the urge to headbang while listening to Firn, and at no point did I feel the need to praise Satan (no more than usual, anyway), yet I absolutely cannot call this album boring.

So if it’s not trvly black metal, and it’s not a riff-laden adventure, but also isn’t a lukewarm dip into naptastic waters, then what the fuck is this nonsense? Well, this nonsense is as follows: “Destiny” is a world waking up to snow, either during the pre-sun hours of dawn or else amidst the glittering reflections of the moon against a crystalline winter’s night, a shimmering coalescence of clean post-metal tones and energetic percussive buildup thrusting the listener into motion. “Madera Sagrada” sees this momentum sustained and pondered upon, with minor chords and the occasional aggressive flare-up introducing conflict to the mix. Spiritual reflection is being had, and it’s not particularly riffy, but it is oh so engaging. As “Vis-à-Vis” fades into existence, an increased energy and presence of percussion bring this conflict to the forefront of focus, and suddenly things aren’t so peaceful. The listener is in the throes of self addressal, until catharsis arrives in the form of the lively closer “Ausblick;” suddenly the woods have been cleared, the turmoil is behind behind us, and all we are left with is the peaceful poignancy of a snowclad forest and a freshly cleared mind.

If Coldbones had introduced a few degrees of liveliness to their compositions and dropped the ambient temperatures to Winter Lights levels, we’d have had Firn that much sooner. An exercise in technical ability it may not be, yet those seeking a soundtrack to a serene sight-seeing stroll through snowy scenery and self reflection are likely to find themselves quite taken by this German sextet’s sophomore effort. Firn is a strong testament to the visual powers of music, and it’s there that I’ll be headed once this Moxie-drenched land ov lobsters and L.L. Bean that I call home finds itself prostrate before the rapacious forces of winter.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 9 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Moment of Collapse Records
Websites: cataya.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/cataya.band
Releases Worldwide: September 28th, 2018

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In the dying throes of September, as the foliage descends with the temperature and the year draws closer to its inevitable demise, the cool breezes of the approaching winter whisper like ghosts warning of death to come; ’tis the season for socially acceptable revelry in the spooky side ov things, and haunts ‘n horrors are in the air in Canada — at least, they were when The Projectionist carved out their seriously sinister sophomore LP, Visits From the Nighthag Part 1. Chronicling a rather unpleasant affair involving night terrors, amputations and evil sleepy-time bitches, Visits captures the haunting spirit of Halloween to a T and spins it into a black metal musical ov sorts. The question is, are we talking a glorious, godless Grease, or an overly ambitious amateur cringefest?

For better or worse, you won’t really know the answer to that without a lyrics sheet. The various styles of black metal vocals employed throughout the album are generally and deliberately unintelligible, effectively rendering much of the storytelling all but pointless. Furthermore, beyond being garbled into a guise of incoherent irrelevance, the vocals are frequently delivered in a manner viler than the rawest and ragged DSBM wailing. My first spin of Visits initially found me utterly repulsed by the shrill rasps and gurgling grunts introduced in “Act 1 – Paralysis of Subconscious Toxins,” until it clicked: these sounded like the malevolent screams and decrepit croonings of an ancient, evil wisp of a fairy — or, I dunno, a Nighthag. Suddenly my interest was piqued, and I was listening not just as a reviewer but as a proper audience member to the characters and plots unraveling before me.

From that point on, Visits took hold of me so hard that I’m surprised I haven’t started speaking in tongues. A dark and twisted fable unfurled before my very earballs, whispering and shrieking to me of an unfortunate projectionist who had unwittingly drawn the attention of a powerful and malicious Nighthag. The story is told via rather Shakespearean lyrics; coupled with the largely indecipherable nature of the vocals, much of the album’s story element is likely to be lost on many listeners, but those who make the effort to engage with Visits will find themselves immersed in a 5-act theatrical ride touring through scenes of amputation, wrathful she-devils and a little black book ov souls. By the end of it all, the Nighthag has reduced the protagonist’s life to ruins and the promise of Part 2 hangs in the air like a looming storm cloud. Sounds harrowing, doesn’t it?

It is. Admittedly the least dynamic of the lot, “Act 1” sets things moving with a plodding bit of mid-tempo Winterfylleth blackness laced with Eldamar keys, and from there, things only get more energetic and violent. Traces of early Dimmu malevolence give way to Drudkhian darkness before everything ultimately explodes into something The Great Old Ones would be proud ov. The sonic scenery shifting to suit the sordid story and sounding suitably sinister for every second of every song. Lo-fi aesthetics blend bone-dry drums and gritty tremolo dissonance into an all-encompassing maw of sound, and each act is more chaotic and frantic than the last as the Nighthag descends upon the protagonist’s world. Nothing particularly new is being done here, yet the increasing intensity of insanity experienced as the album progresses gives it a signature sense of life and charm which makes for a very engaging and visual ride through the darkest parts ov the black metal spectrum. Fans of the genre will feel right at home amidst the obsidian discord of “Act 4 – What Can Be Mollified in a Banshee’s Thrashing?” whether they care to learn the answer or not – providing, of course, they can endure the repugnant DSBM rasps.

In this day and age, the only thing rarer than bands not making black metal is a black metal act with actual vision and imagination; Visits  certainly is another black metal album in an infinitely rising sea ov clones, yet the manner in which it uses familiar settings to tell its own new tale is refreshing and admirable. On their own the songs of Visits are capably delivered stock black metal, inauspicious and inoffensive; experienced as a whole, Visits has proven to be the most intriguing and engaging listen I’ve had the privilege of exploring all year, an imaginative and perilous journey with an absolutely perfect soundtrack. Steeped in the sepulchral spirit ov the season, Visits From the Nighthag Part 1 is an album that will be haunting Muppet‘s Halloween playlists for years to come.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 256 kbps mp3
Label: Appalachian Noise Records
Websites: thetrueprojectionist.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/The-Projectionist
Releases Worldwide: September 30th, 2018

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Guess who’s back, again: The Necromancers are back, so tell a friend, yo! A scant year and change after rocking the Hall straight to Hell with their diabolical debut Servants of the Salem Girl, the fresh faced French foursome stand at the door and knock with their party supplies in one hand and Of Blood and Wine in the other. Last time around the party raged on and on, fueled by the venomous fervor of a fledgling band trying to make a name for itself; with Of Blood and Wine arriving so closely on the Salem Girl‘s heels, can we expect more of the same satanic enthusiasm/enthusiastic Satanism or are we doomed to discover that Servants was just a flash of hellfire in the pan?

In some ways, The Necromancers are still the same doomin’ dudes we met last year. Tom Cornière-David’s gravelly growl is immediately recognizable and as powerful as ever, lending energy to the more aggressive moments of “Join the Dead Ones” and “Secular Lord” as well as cementing the signature sound of the band overall. To that end, Tom and guitarist Robin Genais are still serving the same warm and crunchy tones of classic doom riffspiration we know and love from the Salem days… sometimes. More to come on that, but for better or worse, this is no Servants… Part II. Though there’s definitely some exploration and transformation contained within Of Blood and Wine’s 6 tracks, the important thing is that The Necromancers still sound like The Necromancers…

Sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, “Secular Lord” could easily have been conceived within the same Sabbathian stew ov riffs that gave us last year’s party album. However, a good portion of this year’s offering feels like the weary and painfully sober march back from Ibiza; for better or worse, Of Blood and Wine spends much of its time less interested in the bawdy rabble-rowsery of Servants as it explores the calm, classic proggery of “Lust” or else the somber blues of the title track. Rarely does this route to sonic maturity lead to louder, more chaotic fare, and The Necromancers have taken more than a step or two down the ol’ Nopeth road with this decidedly progressive sophomore effort. This isn’t to say that the songs themselves are necessarily any weaker than on Servants, yet there’s no denying that Of Blood and Wine is significantly easier on the neck and ears.

This shift in sonic priorities is significant enough that the potential for a divided fanbase is already looming on the horizon, lurking in the writhing shadows of Servants‘ sheer energy. Where the songs coalesce into a functionally cohesive album with enough dynamic shifts to keep things lively and moving, it’s clear that The Necromancers know how to do what they’re doing here, and I can’t fault a band for exploring how far they can take their sound throughout the sonic galaxy; however, I’d guess that even the most patient of listeners are likely to detect the same sense of listless, aimless meandering that pervades my ears each time I commit to “Erzabeth’s” 12-plus minutes. Perhaps it’s an unfortunate side-effect of my own disenchantment, but I can’t help but feel like even the more aggressive moments of the album just feel off somehow; at best the energized growling of “Join the Dead Ones” seems somewhat poorly coordinated with the surrounding instrumentation, almost as though the respective build-ups and payoffs of the vocals and the band are somehow mismatched, and at worst there are parts that will feel downright lifeless in comparison to Servants, such as the clean ‘n soulful blues comprising “Of Blood and Wine.” If prog and patience aren’t your thing, remember: I’m just the messenger.

Unlike the wild debauchery of Servants, Of Blood and Wine has proven itself remarkably difficult to rate. Though there are some flaws in the delivery, overall these bold new moves are executed admirably, yet in many ways this directional shift is so drastic that it might not even be fair to use Servants as a point of comparison. Ultimately, The Necromancers have given us something that rocks less but explores more, the end result being an album that covers new grounds for the band without offering much in the way of compensation for their deviation from the form we last loved. By all means, check out Of Blood and Wine with an open mind and a half-full glass ov optimism, but be sure to have a chaser ov something stronger on standby should the taste of disillusion prove too bitter.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 128 kbps mp3
Label: Ripple Music
Websites: facebook.com/thenecromancersband
Releases Worldwide: October 5th, 2018

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Alright everyone, out of the Hall and into the DeLorean, today’s news is olde news. We’ll be landing in 1998, the tail end of a decade of weirdness which had somehow survived grunge and yet seemed destined to be defeated by the almighty Y2K. Amidst the bleached tips and general confusion, unbeknownst to all but the trve, a monster was born, one which would endure what Three Dollar Bill, Y’all$ could not and mature into an inimitable legend within the extreme metal community. A calamitous ray of hope against the JNCO, Meshuggah‘s Chaosphere seized metal’s conventions by the throat, flayed them alive and curb-stomped the body. Atonal chords, time signature seizures, and insane, prosaic insight screamed with voice of Hell itself and more were wrought unto those caught within the ‘sphere, and this piece is dedicated to the memories of life and heaviness as we knew them before Chaosphere ripped those scandalous bitches in two.

I’ll never forget my own initial reception of the ‘sphere. Hidden under my sheets and feigning sleep — for such was the nature of all Muppet metal excursions in those rebellious salad days of yore — I hit the play button on my Sony CD player as surreptitiously as I could and was greeted by the utter cacophony of “Concatenation.” All my freshly pulverized brain could spit back at me was: “This is just fucking noise!” Meshuggah are certainly an acquired taste, and the dissonant mind-fuckery of “The Exquisite Machinery of Torture” might seem aptly named to the uninitiated, yet the atonal jazz tappings and off-kilter time signatures of Chaosphere are anything but mere thoughtless noise. Two decades later, a whole djenre of Meshuggah-likes is still scrambling to reach the cacophonous heights of the ‘sphere – woe, Discordia.

Thoughtless noise it may not have been, but that didn’t make the ‘sphere‘s sound any easier to succinctly categorize, and no one member of Meshuggah can be blamed/thanked for this. In those glorious, innocent days before the Great Djent Plague of 2011-2014, guitarists/stringed demons Mårten Hagström and Fredrik Thordendal stood alone in their 000ber down-tuned chuggatry, and the neurotic jazzms of Thordendal’s solos were all but unfathomable within the extreme metal community of olde, and the seven-stringed mayhem of Chaosphere created an immediate sense of identity in their own right. However, defying all known logic and reason, it is also impossible to speak of any Meshuggah album without recognizing the extraordinary bass work within, and Chaosphere is no exception. One-time bassist Gustaf Hielm reveled in low-end darkness in a much more intricate and prominent manner than is customary among mortals (yet mandatory for Meshuggah), the end result rendering tracks such as “Corridor of Chameleons” and “Neurotica” downright reliant on the presence of his greatness. With Jens Kidman barking out misanthropic musings over all of this like a furious and hyper-caffeinated demon, Chaosphere trvly stands testament to the great and terrible things that can come when glints of insanity and brilliance collide.

For all the worshipful praise that has been doled out thus far, if there is a trve deity behind the exquisite machinery of Meshuggah, it would be drummer/possible transdimensional entity Tomas Haake. Beyond providing the misanthropic brilliance that comprised the album’s lyrics, Haake’s schizophrenic stick-slinging simultaneously stole the show and sustained the ‘sphere‘s existence. The uninitiated may mistake Meshuggah‘s madness as five dudes doing their own thing with no fucks given about anything but loudness, yet the discerning and desensitized ear will recognize how all things spiral back to the incalculable psychosis of Haake’s percussion. The fact that the atonal savagery of “New Millennium Cyanide Christ” works on any level is ridiculous as it is, but keeping it all spasming forward in a manner that initially presents itself as deviating from the instrumental direction entirely is the kind of brilliance that Pearts are made of. Tomas Haake’s inimitable performance behind the kit was as essential and legendary then as it continues to be to this day.

The bottom line was, is, and always will be that, scientifically speaking, Chaosphere is better than you and anything you listen to. While much of the scene was off gallivanting in eyebrow rings and guy-liner, Meshuggah‘s Chaosphere took metal as we knew it and rearranged its pathetic tissue, incising and replacing the laws of the land to reform heaviness itself. Just as bands such as Dillinger, SikTh, and Animals as Leaders have taken the (a)tonal tools of Meshuggah to carve their own niches into metal history, up-and-coming acolytes of these bands continue to further spread the dissonant and disjointed seeds of Meshuggah and the ‘sphere, providing living, breathing testaments to the impact that these Swedes have had on the extreme metal scene. Chaosphere challenged and rewarded listeners in the heyday of Pogs just as much as it does now, and the world is a better place for it. We all say thank ya.

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Dear Kronos,
If you’re reading this, it’s already too late. When the respective hazes of gun smoke and cranial-injury clear, you’ll find your army of feral pigs disposed of and your fortress reduced to rubble; I even sang Porcupine Tree as everything burned to the ground, how’s that for brutal, yo? Anyway, you knew this was coming. You had something of mine – that’s right, had. Not only are you down a fortress and a pig army, but you’ll also find yourself no longer in possession of Avast‘s Mother Culture. This thing couldn’t be more Muppety if it tried, and by Jørn I simply could not allow such a thing to risk a sensible, objectively sound rating when I haven’t been able to properly and possibly inappropriately praise a piece of post-black poetry in practically phorever. What’s done is done, yo, but allow me to paint you a picture of just what you’ve lost.

Given that Avast are a fledgling blackgaze act in the year of our Jørn 2018, you probably thought that you had yet another Deafheaven clone on your hands. An understandable assumption, to be sure, yet Mother Culture is no Newer Bermuda. Sure, it has its moments of unfettered Alcest worship; Avast often shift from shimmering post-metal serenity to evil blackened nastiness, and at its core Mother Culture is very much an atmoblack album. However, where many bands within the genre are content to slap together a handful of repetitive and trope-laden passages and call it an album, these Norwegians craft songs which actually progress and explore themselves, the end result being 40 minutes of adventurous and enjoyable black metal instead of Ghost Bath v 7.0. What’s more, the production is actually warm and alive rather than frozen to lo-fi death or else mechanically rendered sterile: this shit not only sounds good, it also, like, sounds good.

To that end, Avast‘s sound could be described as something to the effect of Woman is the Earth meets Downfall of Gaia. There’s a certain sinister sense of seriousness to it all; the songs sound significant and somehow superior to the music ov mere mortals. This is not (just) to gush about the album, but also an attempt to describe the monolithic, otherworldly atmosphere of Mother Culture: the black metal aspects recall the brooding malevolence of Darkthrone and early Ulver, while the post/atmospheric bits come from a strange sonic space somewhere between the reverberating resonance of Unreqvited and the dense delirium of Départe. The harsh Anagnorisish vocals lend themselves remarkably well to the larger-than-life feel of the album, and with various death- and doom metal shadings applied throughout to keep things interesting, Avast‘s take on atmospheric black metal is brutal and progressive enough that you might have mistook it for something Kronos-friendly, except fuck that. Chea, this is Muppet music.

Had you been able to keep your grubby mitts on this blackened gem, oh Brutal One, the dynamic songwriting of Mother Culture would likely have surprised the shit and moss-peeping expectations right out of you. Though not on the level of such legends as Ulver – yet, anyway, for this be but the debut – it’s clear that these lads took note of their countrymen’s engaging and varying compositional structures and chose to go about things more in that way, rather than waffling on incessantly to one rhythm per track as has largely become customary in atmoblack. Each song is a blackened landscape, replete with valleys and mountains and cool shit like swamps and forest fires and a gateway to Hell. Given that the average track length nears seven minutes, this sense of versatility is given ample room to romp its way through each sonic adventure; in turn the songs never become stale, and the album flows forward feeling fresh and fun forfuckingever.

Now that you know what you’ve lost, you must also know that I’m certain to overrate this fucker. It can’t be helped! Most atmoblack thrives as a rehash of itself with vaguely differing artwork, the good ones being those who steal more successfully than others; this thing thrives through actually exploring itself, largely following the trails ov the genre yet frequently meandering into other territories and arriving at the end ov a blackened rainbow every time. You should have killed me when you had the chance, yo, for I solemnly swear that I am up to no good and have zero intentions of giving this thing anything resembling the eloquent and objective treatment you would have delivered. No, Mother Culture gets a velvety tongue-bath, and you get sub-par grindcore. Justice, yo.

Sincerely/yo’s,
Muppet

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbs mp3
Label:  Dark Essence Records
Websites: avastband.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/avastband
Releases Worldwide: October 26th, 2018

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So the good news is that today we’ll be taking a field trip, we’ll be heading into the jungle so dress accordingly; the betterer news is that this is a time travel episode! Drawing lyrical inspiration from history and mythology alike, India’s Dirge are taking us to Central America, circa Hernán Cortés’ storied rape of romp through the Yucatán Peninsula. This box-approved bidness is a rather violent affair in and of itself, so hurry up and get your seatbelts fastened. Or don’t, yo. Your safety is none of my concern, I’m just here to tell you about a wicked good doom album.

To that end: I’m just here to tell you about a wicked good doom album, there will be no history lesson today. Not having access to the lyrics at the time of writing, all I know is what I heard, and what I heard was 6 tracks worth of some of the most interesting and versatile doom metal that I’ve encountered all year. To that end, if we’re being all technical about it, Ah Puch would likely be most fairly categorized as progressive doom. The doomy bits are Candlemassive and a tad unholier than Thou, yet the vocals are almost hardcore shouts, and the songwriting of the album is such that each track explores tonal possibilities beyond the black mire of stock doom; “Montezuma’s Revenge” is death doom deliciousness, for example, while “La Malinche” features hints of Neurosis and “The Dilemma” is straight up acoustic. For being yet another doom album, Ah Puch‘s greatest strength is its refusal to be just another doom album; versatility is the name of the game, and if this debut is any indication to go by, Dirge have some big(ger(er)) wins ahead of them.

Now, to this that end, the versatility of Ah Puch makes discerning any semblance of a signature sound somewhat of a strenuous assignment. The album simultaneously increases its death and prog levels with each successive track, to the point that the heady aggression of “Corpse of Cortez” is nearly unrecognizable from the more straightforward sludge-doom of opener “Invoking the Demigod.” This is hardly to the detriment of the album, yet it doesn’t make things any easier for this velvety heap ov opinions to succinctly summarize, and said opinion pile is unsure how to feel about it. It all flows together well enough, there’s just no real sense of identity here and for some reason this irritates me. That said, I have no actual complaints about Ah Puch otherwise, the whole thing’s a blast no matter what sound Dirge are dabbling in and you’ll check it out if you know what’s good for you.

So now that it’s come to threats and prog, we can abandon the pretense of civility and get right down to the brutal dirt of honesty. Ah Puch suffers from one crucial flaw, and the trvth ov the matter is: I have no idea what it is. For all the well-executed and enjoyable exploration experienced along the way, there’s a certain indescribable sense of something that’s just not quite there. If anything, I’d guess that the greatest failure of Ah Puch is that it dropped the same year as Iris, Támsins Likam, and Sentiment, not to mention being pawned off to an angry metal ‘reviewer’ of equal or greater punctuality impairment. Put simply, Ah Puch arrived to the Great 2018 Doom Soiree a bit too late and without a flashy enough outfit to be more than a wallflower. These guys have some great ideas and are definitely a blast to jam with, but to a certain extent they’re an Ashton Kutcher in a sea of Charlie Sheens: this is a more than capable doom release, but it’s not gonna be the one you’re thinking of come the rapidly approaching list season.

At the end of the day, Ah Puch is an album that you shouldn’t miss but probably will, one which should stand out yet probably won’t. There’s so much in these 6 tracks that works well and threatens to stand out, it’s a quality collection of killer, creative compositions, but there was simply just too much other, zazzier, doom dished out this year for Ah Puch to rise above too many heads in the sea of tonal despair. A ridiculously subjective damnation, to be sure, but it was my call and I made it. This one’s worth your time, just don’t say I didn’t warn you when it’s March and you realize that you haven’t listened to this at all thanks to Iris and Sentiment still having you in their clutches.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label:  Self-Release
Websites: dirgeindia.bandcamp.com | Facebook.com/DIRGE/India
Releases Worldwide:  October 19th, 2018

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If you’ve been making the mistake of paying attention to me this year, you’ve probably noticed the name Bloodbark tossed about all William Nilliam. This phenomenon has occurred for two reasons, the first of which being that you likely have terrible tastes in role models. The second, more important reason, is that Bonebranches comprises forty minutes ov the most magnificently Muppetous metal music made amidst the massive, miserable mess mankind’ll ‘member as “2018.” This year saw more one-man atmoblack than is perhaps advisable, so just what makes this three-track random Bandcamp discovery worth writing to The Hall about? Well, keep reading, dipshit, you’re about to get your learn on.

The first selling point: three tracks. I have infinite musical superiority and am allotted only three TYMHMs per year, so if I’m sacrificing one of those precious slots to plug a three track album and you’re an atmoblack fiend, you should probably be paying attention. Two of Bonebranches‘ blackened ballads have refused to leave my daily listening experience since the album dropped way back in January; not bad by the tried n’ trve Meat Loaf standard, but downright empirically excellent when considering just how fucking many post-black albums have been released since then: if it’s cold and precipitous outside, “Ferns and Roads” WILL be played in Muppetland, no matter how many other classic blackened gems have secured that seasonal spotlight in years past.

You know ‘that’ sound? Of course you do: it’s that indescribable moment of transcendental bliss during “Black Lake Niðstang,” the mournful euphoria of RÛR, that timeless melancholic ecstasy that Winterfylleth call home; much like Skyborne Reveries‘ Winter Lights, Bonebranches finds its success by adhering to the tried and trve ways of modern atmoblack, avoiding any sense of wheel reinvention and instead honing the finest points of the genre into a lethal and soulful blend of all of the above. I don’t know or care what Bush was talking about: this is the sound of winter, yo.

Objectively speaking, I have to acknowledge that each of Bonebranches‘ tracks essentially find themselves mired in their respective main melodies for the bulk of their run-times; make no mistake, this is atmoblack being atmoblack—it’s just doing a really, really good job of making the melody matter. Everything it lacks in dynamics is compensated for in feels, and that’s ultimately what atmoblack is all about. Well, that and scenic album covers.

If you’ve slept on Bonebranches til now, I kind of hate you but I also kind of envy you. As the sun sets on the year and encases the land in crystalline cold, the stage is seasonally set for this icy gem to shine its brightest. For some, this may be just another atmoblack album, and you’re not necessarily wrong—you just suck. For others, i.e. sane people, Bonebranches is a beautiful sonic encapsulation of winter itself, a perfect soundtrack to the least perfect time of year.

Tracks to Check Out: All ov them. There’s only three, you lazy fvcks.

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If you’re like me, you hear angry metal voices in your head and frequently find yourself resuming consciousness in places where you didn’t necessarily intend to be. If you’re like me in more socially acceptable ways, you fvcking love Harakiri for the Sky. Something about those cloying tremolo-picked melodies coupled with J.J.’s soulfelt screams just fucking does it for me in a way that I can’t get enough of, so checking out homeboy’s one-man blackened adventure, Karg, was a no-brainer while I waited out February’s Arson. Thank Jørn I did, as it gave me the opportunity to properly anticipate the project’s then-pending 6th full-length release, Dornenvögel, and likewise be that much more satisfied by its utter fucking greatness. You don’t get that painful privilege if this is your first time hearing of said fucking greatness, but don’t worry: it’ll still be fucking great when you do hear it.

Confirmed Karglings and listeners with reasonable expectations will find nothing surprising about how strongly Dornenvögel‘s melodies recall those of HftS; what is somewhat surprising, however, is just how straight savage this stuff trvly is while still sounding so similar to that same sky-suiciding sweetness. Subjectively speaking, I’d say this solo stuff scratches the HftS itch to smithereens. J.J.’s distinct melodic signature is all over Dornenvögel, as is the aggressive black core that balances out HftS so well, yet the slightly heightened emphasis on Karg‘s core ov kvlt killer instincts yields—in my indisputable Muppet opinion—a superior creation altogether. Even the absence of III: Trauma-style solos fails to elicit a complaint from me; these tracks are simply too enjoyable to need anything else.

As far as the added aggression goes, almost all of the album’s animalistic atmosphere arrives à la awesome assaults against the microphone. The lyrics being screamed in German inherently ups the intensity of the vocals (to my sensitive English-programmed earballs, anyway) and the powerhouse pipes performance this time around only kicks things up a notch or thovsand. There’s something going on here that’s at once more earnest and more furious than anything I’ve ever heard from J.J., almost like it’s somebody else behind the mic…

Because it is! Well, often, anyway. J.J. blows the doors and windows out of everything around, and into the wreckage wanders a swarm of A-list guest vocals, an atmoblack infestation ov sorts. The various vengeful voices that haunt this hallowed offering hail from such esteemed blackened acts as Ancst, Ellende, Downfall of Gaia, and several others, with each of Dornenvögel‘s eight tracks featuring a guest appearance. This element lends the already engaging album a shifting sense of liveliness, with each track offering a tasty new seasoning to compliment the goodness ov this atmoblack stevv.

Whether they’re card-carrying collaborators in the kvlt ov Karg, high-spirited HftS henchmen hoping to hear their heroes or else some form of general connoisseur that defies alliteration, fans of the malignant and melodic metal methodologies which make atmoblack the emotional monster we know and love are likely to eat Dornenvögel right up. Melancholy and rage is always the right combination, and here we find that J.J. has perfected the formula into something brutiful and trvly list-worthy. Be a better person, stop sucking, and get you some Karg!

Tracks to Check Out: “Heimat Bist Du Tiefster Winter,” “L’appel Du Vide,” “Drangsal”

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The things I do for you people. Even buried under my snowclad tomb ov employment, I could sense an invading presence as our great Hall became infested by a swarm of freshly hatched n00blets, so I’ve dug through my constraints of ice and time itself to save you ungrateful heathens from obituaries declaring “Overdosed on Cherd.” What’s more, there wasn’t jack shit to work with in the ol’ promo dreamsnatcher, so I had to hunt down a worthwhile artist and obtain of deep album all on my own, by any means necessary. I basically almost died for you assholes, so you all owe me whatever passes for your lives, but I come bearing presents, yo; everyone gather round and shut the fuck up, let’s see what MoM brought us.

Malist‘s In the Catacombs of Time – the album in question, for the contextually challenged – is about as joyful as an AIDS diagnosis. One-man blackened army Ovfrost leads a 10 track charge against cheer, skulking through an expansive spectrum ov sombre and sullen sounds along the way; be it by way of opener “Venture into Life”‘s mournful minimalism mounting into more massive-sounding melancholy, the more adventurous and Agalloch-ian aggression of “Spiritual Oppression,” or the contemptuous camult of “Food for the Flames,” Catacombs drags the listener across every inch of negative space it can find for nearly fifty minutes. With such heavy emphasis placed on the album’s emotional atmosphere, it should come as no surprise that Catacombs is tagged as an atmospheric black metal album. What should come as a surprise is that this… is… not atmoblack!

Allow me to explain. As the defining constraints of the subgenre loosen and expand to encompass every new blackened act that rears its horn-ed head, the likes ov Zhrine, Unreqvited and the ghost of Agalloch could attend an atmospheric black metal family revnion and know each other as kvlt kin, despite being nearly sonically unrecognizable from each other; Malist would be welcome, as well, but their stay would be brief and largely spent lurking in the back with the trve oldheads, such as Uncle Taake or the creepy Celtic Frost cousins. It’s becoming nigh impossible to know what to call anything, and while Catacombs cannot rightly claim to be a pvre black metal album, it must also be stressed that this thing almost can’t be rightly called atmoblack, either. Sure, atmosphere is imperative to the music ov Malist, yet here there also be… wait for it… fvcking riffs, yo.

“Violated by Nothingness” is likely the strongest case one might present towards the aforementioned argument. I mean, good Jørn, the thing progs out and practically djents at around the two minute mark – and it fvcking works! “En Bitter Långtan” likewise romps and rolls around relatively riffier realms than anything else tagged as atmoblack these days, yet its deathgrip on such essential elements as post-black tremolo picking and cacophonous shrieks make it pretty difficult to pry this thing away from that perpetually vexing and potentially misleading tag. Furthermore, and possibly the album’s greatest strength, Ovfrost’s vocal performance throughout yields far more than strictly run ov the mill shrieks. Refreshingly, those who explore these Catacombs will experience vocals that ebb and flow like waterfalls throughout the album, rather than listening to the rivers of monotone shrieking they’re used to in black metal. Indeed, practically the entire gauntlet of ranges is run, here, as Ovfrost croaks, croons, cries and screams in registers high and low. This stylistic fluctuation, while defying proper definition, is what defines this album and makes it so miserably fvcking fun. On their own, the songs themselves hold a little less weight without the beneficial contrast of a shifting backdrop to shine against, but they are each nonetheless enjoyable in their own right. Through it all the old ways are honored, the new methods are mastered, and what we’re left with is something sure to claim fans from either side ov the spectrum.

I have nothing bad to say about In the Catacombs of Time. Some may rabble that the production is on par with traditional one-man blackened projects, but fuck them I don’t consider this to be a fault. Besides, if you creeps can dare to hate on this after the vanilla shitshow that January turned out to be, then I can’t claim to care what concoctions your craptastic cranium creates anyway. In the Catacombs of Time is adventurous, well executed and all kinds ov intriguing, something I can’t often say about your typical atmoblack debut. You’re welcome, you undeserving bunch of ingrates.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
Label: Northern Silence
Websites: malist.bandcamp.com/releases | facebook.com/malistband
Releases Worldwide: January 28th, 2019

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