Funny story how I discovered this self-proclaimed Black Horror Metal band. Being such a pathetic Katatonia fanboy in the mid-to-late ’90s, all it took was a quick glance at a photo of Anders (or Blakkheim as he was known back then) in some long-forgotten Euro zine wearing what I thought was a Denial of God shirt. Through the power of not having any bills, I had a copy of Klabautermanden a week later. Turns out it wasn’t a Denial of God shirt, but I kept the EP anyway because… it wasn’t bad. They somehow fell off the face of the Earth to me after that and, like clockwork, every few years I consider selling it. Then I listen to it again just to be sure and always end up keeping it because… it still isn’t bad. Fast-forward a couple decades and I’m staring at new LP Death and the Beyond in total shock that they’re still a band! What’s equally amazing is that their sound has been, for the most part, completely unmolested by time. Sure the production’s better, they’ve condensed from a quartet to a trio, and the pace isn’t quite as consistently speedy as the old days, but the attack and feel are still identical. Mid-paced to fast Black Metal in the style of the Second Wave (of which they were arguably a part), with symphonic elements and a flair for the theatrical. Don’t think Cradle of Filth or Dimmu Borgir, it’s a bit more grim and dirtier than that. Closer to Ancient and Darkthrone hanging out in their primes. The album’s greatest strength might be the gravelly yet intelligible voice of Ustumallagam. Vocals in league with any church-burner you’d care to mention. If there’s one flaw it’s the ridiculous length of the songs. Eight tracks at 62 minutes? Guys, I got shit to do. Maybe cut back on the narrative bits a little? Play me a song, don’t read me a story. When they go straight for the throat, as on the downright Doomy “Funeral” and the anthemic riff/melody parade of “Behind the Coffin’s Lid,” they’re at their deadliest. Sadly, not long after this effective one-two punch, the record (along with its listener) falls asleep. It’s not as though it’s ever terrible, just boring. Most likely because it’s about 20 minutes longer than it needs to be. I’ll probably still hang onto it though… it isn’t bad.

Albums like this are the reason haters get out of bed in the morning. I can’t wait to see the media’s angry-virgin response to this bruiser. But while they’re waxing nostalgic over which Isis song had the most meaningful open E-chord, or pretending they can tell Pig Destroyer and Gaza songs apart, those of us who like our Hardcore hard —and just so happen to miss the shit out of Despised Icon— have cause for celebration on our hands. Real motherfuckers, rejoice! The highly anticipated debut from Obey the Brave is finally upon us. Featuring ex-Despised Icon throat Alex Erian, Young Blood can best be described as a near-perfect amalgamation of early Hatebreed’s Metallic rage, the Old School primitiveness of Terror, and the breakdown-laden thuggery of Bury Your Dead and Until the End. It isn’t all brute strength, however. There’s a fair amount of melodic sensibility brought to the table as well. Some of these arrangements bring to mind emotive Metalcore’s heyday (e.g. Poison the Well, etc.), while others recall the heartfelt simplicity of ’90s So-Cal Skate Punk (it is, after all, an Epitaph release). Either way, nearly every song here is an anthem. The record successfully achieves the perfect balance of knuckle-dragging brutality and poignancy. So dumbed down it’s genius, this one has blood, sweat, and tears in full effect. There’s also a slew of guest vocal appearances, most notably Scott Vogel (Terror), Kevin McCaughey (Ion Dissonance), Keith Holuk (ex-Ligeia), Liam Cormier (Cancer Bats), and gang vocals featuring Erian’s Despised Icon co-growler Steve Marois. I can’t say enough about this LP’s energy, aggression, and instant likability. I also can’t wait to start an argument with some fucking nerd over how much more technically diverse this is than Cynic’s entire discography, how much more experimentally psychedelic it is than recent Nachtmystium, or how they use way more polyrhythms than Meshuggah. Y’know, just for shits and giggles.

Make a wish, a star is falling. And holy fuck do I mean far. I had a feeling when this former Emperor frontman began his pursuit of a solo career that things would not end up well. So far, said solo career has produced one essential song, and it owes more to Mikael Akerfeldt’s vocals than anything. Plus, let’s not forget the historical pattern of the Inner Circle’s Shemp: each album gets worse. Not sure how it’ll get any worse than Eremita, which can only be dissected via track-by-track analysis. Opener “Arrival” sounds a lot like a Stryper song, and not the really good Stryper songs like “Holy Trinity Four-Way” and “Takin’ My Saviour Balls Deep,” I mean their big-in-Japan era. “The Paranoid” is reminiscent of R&B group Jodeci with an Emperoresque tinge and a stunning guest guitar solo from Ralph Macchio. “Introspection” is the LP’s sincere Mr. Big moment, while “The Eagle and the Snake” is actually a cover from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack. I forget the artist, but then again haven’t we all? “Catharsis” is a collaboration co-written by Sully from Godsmack and Miles Davis, which features amazing guest timpani work from Scott Baio. “Something Out There” once again rekindles the Emperor church fires, albeit with a slight Barnum & Bailey Circus slant, while “Grief” is an instrumental dedicated to Fred Savage and Nancy Kerrigan. Remember Tackleberry from Police Academy? The gun-crazy cop? “The Grave” sounds a lot like his band did when Mahoney threw that party but sent the two dickhead cops to the gay bar instead. Which ties in perfectly to closer “Departure,” a New Wave take on the Blue Oyster Bar theme music featuring a duet with Amy Grant (who I’ve always wanted to fuck in the ass). I’m just kidding, folks. Eremita isn’t anywhere near that interesting. It’s total Prog garbage for lifeless souls. With ease, the worst album I’ve heard in 2012. Maybe ever.

When I see the name “Conan,” I think of Robert E. Howard’s barbarian king. Everything about that name conjures up images of brutality, savage warfare and epic fantasy storytelling. If you have the stones to call your band Conan, you’d better be able to produce. Sadly, this New York Doom band doesn’t. [Correction: This band is from the UK. Liverpool to be exact, if anyone cares that much. -Editor] The only thing “epic” about Monnos was how boring it was. Every song chugs along at the same basic tempo, and outside of the track “Golden Axe,” all of them were basically the same in terms of structure. “Golden Axe” was essentially an interlude that went nowhere. I wouldn’t even really classify it as a song. It’s just five and a half minutes of the same boring riff and repetitive drumming. This isn’t Robert E. Howard’s Conan. This is Faux-nan the bore-barian. Crom is not pleased.

It doesn’t seem that long ago I was reviewing the Crypticus/Scaremaker split, bedazzled by the latter’s versatile frontwoman, wondering what would happen if the faster arrangements were shed and the Doomier aspects solely focused on. I pretty much have my answer in the form of Wooden Stake. Fronted by the lovely Jill Nocera with a little help from Scaremaker bandmate Wayne Sarantopoulos, this project is indeed a witching Doom affair that allows the sinister siren to spread her demon wings and more effectively show off her range. At the Stroke of Midnight is an odds and ends compilation following hot on the heels of 2010 debut Dungeon Prayers & Tombyard Serenades, featuring one new song, the Black Caped Carnivore and Invoke the Ageless Witch EPs, the Vampire Plague Exorcism demo, plus the splits with Druid Lord and Blizaro. Production qualities vary from okay to bad, yet a super-polished sound would probably only rob the band of its b-horror charm anyway. New cut “Night of the Banshee” easily has the best sound and is arguably the best song. Jill’s vocals are pure Stevie Nicks, which works perfectly with backing growls and a morbid Doom aesthetic if you ask me. The demo/7-inch material is hit or miss at best. While the vocals are consistently impressive, some of the structures seem a bit thrown together and often incoherent. A few of these riffs are just plain clunkers (“Curse of the Funeral Mistress,” “Death Reads the Black Tarot,” “Forbidden Oath”) and, at an unrealistic 71 minutes, this begins to feel like an impromptu jam session existing only to serve as a vehicle for the voice after a while. Nocera’s talents ensure an enjoyable ride throughout —just listen to that Wanda Jackson swagger on the Cathedralesque bounce of “The Legend of Blood Castle”— but the lack of cohesion unfortunately results in a trip taken less frequently. With better songwriting, this singer could cast her spell on any Doomster within earshot.

Not sure what’s happening with Agalloch, but I get that sinking feeling that I’m losing one of my favorite bands. I had a sneaking suspicion that member(s) of Ludicra might fuck things up somehow, though I can’t recall exactly why, as that band is nowhere near interesting enough to listen to twice. 2010’s Marrow of the Spirit was a solid record, not much of a departure from glorious past works, but nothing I reach for too often. And, alas, as bands begin to inch near the end of the creative rope, we get novelties like 20-minute song/EPs (at least we can be thankful this isn’t another meandering instrumental teaser). Initially, this obvious concept piece is cursed by an inhumanly annoying spoken narrative that wastes no time farting in my dinner. Spray fart. I’m not looking to peek into Ancient’s abandoned bag of tricks when I put on an Agalloch album. Musically things start out decent, if not ultimately remarkable. Thankfully Haughm’s patented Blackened snarl sounds as bleak and razor sharp as ever. Sadly, things don’t really get exciting until about 6:14, when the band embarks on a despondent journey melodically reminiscent of For Funerals to Come-era Katatonia. However, two minutes later this dissolves into nothingness and we’re again plagued by lines from a play no one is watching. From there the song explodes into full-speed Black Metal, the clean guitar melodies beautifully woven into blasting fury creating a brief but effective highlight. Wandering ensues as the drummer takes a breather, then at 14:50 the epic track settles in to a mid-tempo melancholic comfort zone, as the band showcase their melodic mastery for the remaining 6+ minutes — the final 40 seconds stained by the recurring fagspeak. For the most part this recording is rescued by the brilliance that is Agalloch, but one can’t help but think how perfect this could’ve been minus the intrusive narration and about 6-8 minutes of fat trimmed away. We’ll see where they go from here.

There was a time when the words “featuring Kevin Sharp on vocals” would’ve incited great curiosity and excitement. There was a time when Brutal Truth ruled the world, and their iconic frontman was a huge part of that. A very cool, down-to-earth dude with pipes that used to intimidate Thor. However, I’ve fallen for the Kevin Sharp-side-project trick once before with the horrendously awful Venomous Concept, and now that Brutal Truth’s once-mighty Grind assault has gone completely batshit, these days flip a coin. Still, I thought for a second that Primate might be a potential conduit for the primal ooze that’s been sorely lacking in Brutal Truth since their reformation, and hoped Draw Back a Stump would be that back-to-basics Grindcore rager. Then I remembered that hope is a one-night stand that gives you AIDS. This is total shit. Phoned-in Punk slop meets Crust for Dummies, and Sharp’s voice sounds terrible. When he doesn’t sound like a backwoods Deliverance hillbilly, it’s second rate Kirk Windstein, or Jeff Clayton’s dad at best. I would gladly benchpress the effects on Kevin Sharp’s vocals if he would promise to use them. The kids at my high school who went to the “special classes” had better Hardcore bands than this (see “Drinking and Driving”). I’m told this project also features someone from Mastadon. I thought I sensed the foreign presence of light. Harmless to the point of embarrassing, this happy —possibly impromptu— jam session reeks of nothing but a good time, and I don’t need Poison lyrics anywhere near my Grindcore. That Venomous Concept is sounding pretty good right about now.

I’ve heard Metal mixed with almost every other kind of music out there (including Flamenco - a local band called Flametal did a Flamenco/Metal fusion that was kind of interesting in a live setting, but ultimately they were more of a novelty act than anything else), but this is the first time I’ve ever heard Metal fused with Swing. Diablo Swing Orchestra is more Swing than Metal, so if you’re expecting a Metal album with a Swing garnish, you’re going to be disappointed. If you don’t like Swing music, you’re going to hate this album. For me, this is a “listen to it once and that’s it” band. Once you own one album by this band, you’ll never need another one because this goes just about everywhere it can go. In fact, you can get essentially everything you could ever want out of this band after listening to a small portion of Pandora’s Pinata. Personally, the only real reason I can see to even own this is to show your non-Metalhead friends how “open-minded” you are. It might even get you a blowjob from some hairy armpitted, blue dreadlock encrusted college chick. Of course, you could probably get that same blowjob if you just let her smoke some of your pot, but that would be a waste of good weed (and you’ll be able to play the Diablo Swing Orchestra CD again for a different hairy armpitted, blue dreadlock encrusted college chick). Swing appeals to a small number of people and none of those people are Metal fans. The fusion of the two genres is pure novelty, much in the same way as mixing comedy and Metal is. Once the novelty wears off, there’s nothing left. I’ve given Diablo Swing Orchestra a couple of extra points for at least trying to be different and original, but that’s just me being generous. This might be good Swing music, but that’s not a selling point if you’re a Metal fan.

These guys are lucky I dig them so much. It wasn’t easy, but when they covered a poser band only faggots like that shall go unmentioned on their little download-only EP last year, I looked the other way. I was pissed, and ready to invent new slurs for homosexuals with my slander, but the faux pas went unpunished. Why? With a ferocious triple-guitar attack responsible for the heaviest breakdowns known to man, and a vocalist whose deep roar is so demonically bestial it has been known to provoke involuntary bowel movement, Whitechapel had created three near-perfect Deathcore albums until that point. Plus I saw them pull it all off convincingly in the live setting, so I wasn’t ready to negate all this history over one terrible mistake on an EP that only exists in theory anyway. However, after sitting through this highly disappointing self-titled album several times, I’m a bit closer to being ready. Clearly when bands start deciding it’s a good idea to cover Glam songs, it’s a fair indicator shit’s about to head south. And while I can’t say Whitechapel is that bad of an album, it sure isn’t all that good of one either. Certainly not by their lofty standards. This is the sound of a Deathcore band neutering themselves to appease the wavering masses. Breakdowns are out because the burgeoning neophytes of the Metal press who spend all day listening to awkward, lightweight drivel like Baroness and Torche say they’re out. Henceforth, no more big bad Whitechapel breakdowns. The band’s molten, oppressive heaviness has been significantly sterilized, most likely to appeal to a wider range of fans (who illegally download all their music anyway). The guitars aren’t half as heavy as they once were, and Phil Bozeman’s voice has gone from demon to drill sergeant. Ironically, the only real standout cut is from the aforementioned EP of ill repute. Not sure if it’s time to stick a fork in this band just yet, but it’ll take some serious regression for me to give a fuck again.