Three minutes into this and I was already bored. That’s never good. Beating one riff into the floor over and over again doesn’t make it more interesting. The fact that it’s not brutal, aggressive or even heavy doesn’t help either. This is so passive that it makes This Empty Flow sound like Bonded by Blood-era Exodus. Hunter is about as interesting as watching paint dry and I have the distinct feeling that I’m not on the appropriate hallucinogenic drugs to make this album worthwhile. The final track, “Never Land” is supposed to be a Sisters of Mercy cover, but it sounds nothing like the original. Then again, I don’t think taking two riffs from Sisters of Mercy and beating them to death for thirteen minutes qualifies as a cover. A desecration, maybe, but not a cover. Heirs is referred to as “Post-Doom” in their press release, but this isn’t Doom. Some of the members of this band may have wanted to play Doom at some point, but my guess is that they sucked so bad that they had to put the word “post” in front of it to sound like they intended to be this pointless. Hunter sounds like background music for those shitty art house films that try to be all “bleak” and “symbolic,” but are essentially exercises in deconstructed masturbation. How this band made it to a second release - and found a label to release it - is beyond me.

Let’s see… Brutal, down-tuned guitars? Check. Guttural, monotone vocals? Check. Originality checked in at the door? Check. Flesh Throne, you are cleared for takeoff. It’s nice to know that someone still thinks aping Incantation is a great idea, because I’m sure Darkthrone and Burzum are getting kind of sick of being blamed for all the shitty, sub-par Metal music that’s out there. Flesh Throne is essentially cookie-cutter Brutal Death Metal that huge numbers of bands produced back in the early ’90s when Black Metal was still “underground.” Going against the trend is admirable, but ultimately you live and die by how good your music is. Onslaught isn’t horrible. It’s just unoriginal. The songs chug along at a steady pace, pounding your face in like a giant pile driver. The vocals are utterly bestial and guttural to the point of unintelligibility. All things that have been done to death. There aren’t any blatant technical mistakes, but nothing here pops out and says “now that was fucking cool!” (A sin that Incantation committed any number of times, too). For a jaded Metal fan like me, generic Death Metal gets my dick about as hard as watching an hour of Masterpiece Theater on PBS. Since Masterpiece Theater is essentially the anti-Viagra, Onslaught sits firmly in erectile dysfunction city. Unless you absolutely must own every Death Metal release, you can skip this and not miss out on anything.

I didn’t know anything about Ptahil prior to hearing this, but I definitely like the band’s brand of Black Heavy Metal. These guys are Old School and you can really tell that they have a lifelong Metal background. If Black Sabbath was brutally raped by Slayer at a Celtic Frost concert, the resulting abomination child would sound a lot like For His Satanic Majesty’s Glory. This is some brutal, bass-heavy, neck-snapping, gets-your-head-banging-from-the-first-riff, Satanic as fuck Heavy Fucking Metal. This is what I wished Grim Reaper sounded like when See You In Hell came out (not that See You In Hell sucked, but I wanted it to be heavier and more evil). Honestly, this is one of those albums that you listen to and wonder why it doesn’t come with a fucking neck brace. The only thing comparable would be if Usurper did an album covering Hell, Grim Reaper and Brocas Helm songs.

Grindy Death Metal bands like Dead don’t do a lot for me. One of the reasons for this is that a lot of times they do something that makes it impossible to take them seriously. A song titled “Tits”? Really? You guys must get laid less often than Anal Blast. The rest of the song titles and lyrics are equally lame, too. Maybe I’m the wrong person to do these kinds of reviews because I take listening to Metal music seriously. When I listen to it, I want my head torn off. I want things brutal and occult. I want Satan himself coming out of my speakers to rip my soul from my body. If I want humor with musical accompaniment, I can listen to a Weird Al CD and get all the laughs I need. Musically, this is pretty competently executed, but the “humor” parts don’t help. The brutal Death/Grind is hard-hitting, but the shitty lyrics, stupid samples (such as in “A Beer” or “Short but Slim”) and general lack of seriousness brings this down. Joke bands only go so far before the novelty wears off, and for me the novelty of Dead wore off almost immediately.

Several factors impede my ability to digest and enjoy Prog Rock. The fact that I can still produce and maintain an erection, relationships with non-fictional people, heterosexuality, employment, etc. So when it comes to an album like this new Dark Suns, the best I can do is to offer you an analogy. Let’s say Mikael Akerfeldt from Opeth and Omar Rodriguez-Lopez from The Mars Volta are hanging out at Mikael’s apartment, locked in a deep dispute over which Comus song has the best ukulele solo, when all of a sudden Omar says, “Hey Mikey, you wanna fuck me in the ass?” “Sure,” Mikael responds, “why the hell not?” So Akerfeldt begins to pound Omar’s ass with reckless abandon. It’s at this point Omar realizes he hasn’t taken a shit since his all-natural, organic, vegan falafel this morning, but by now it’s too late as he feels his bowels involuntarily releasing. Mikael continues punishing Omar’s shit-spewing mangina with so much fury that he tears his anal wall and Lopez begins to bleed. This excites Mikael more than a 29-minute John Myung bass solo, and no longer able to hold back, ejaculates violently into Omar’s battered opening. At the exact minute he cums, Akerfeldt screams at the top of his lungs, “I’m liberated from the shackles of Metal!!” He now slowly unburies his member. “Keep it in there! Keep it in there!” Mikael commands. And Lopez does so just long enough for Akerfeldt to kneel down and felch the blood-semen-vegan excrement out of Omar’s asshole. “Don’t be selfish,” Lopez pleads, as Mikael then spits the mouthful of cum, blood and shit into his mouth. This causes instant nausea which results in Omar vomiting all the goods onto the ground. Luckily Mikael is able to scoop up most of the vomit-semen-blood-shit mixture with a Camel 10” picture disc. He salvages as much as he can and tosses into his favorite blender, the one James LaBrie got him for Christmas the year before. He then adds shaved coconut, almonds, pecans, lemon zest, steamed raisin skins, some pineapple juice, a splash of O’Doul’s and 9 whole onions to the concoction. But something’s still missing. He makes a quick phone call to Fred Wilpon, who happens to owe him a huge favor. Lo and behold, several hours later all 25 men on the active roster for the New York Mets arrive and each take turns ejaculating into the blender. Some of the younger players fresh out of college who still have acne even pop their whitehead and blackhead pus into the cocktail just to give it that little extra kick. Now all it needs are some of Mikael’s “special ice cubes” (Steven Wilson’s frozen urine), and the blender is set to puree for about 90 seconds. Akerfeldt pulls out a chilled glass, the same one Neil Peart made him when they took that glass-blowing class together last summer, and pours it to the brim, topping with all-natural, organic, sugar free, vegan whipped cream and a cherry. The contents of the glass are this new album from Dark Suns. And to listen to it is to drink up. Bon appetit!

I was prepared to ruthlessly make fun of this album based purely on the gayness of the band photos and idiotic moniker. Is it “September 7th,” or am I actually supposed to say “Sep-seven-ember”? I was also briefed on their style not being Metal, which isn’t a huge problem for me personally, but we here at Metal Curse tend to prefer… I don’t know… Metal? But, I decided to give it the old college try. Sure enough, album opener “View Into Blur” doesn’t waste any time disappointing. I can’t stand the piercing rhythm of Boris Pillmann’s vocal delivery. Musically the band is hard to pigeonhole. This is the kind of music that the vague description of “Alternative” was invented for. Pillmann’s singing is equally hard to describe because he reminds me of so many vocalists. He sounds kind of like Arlo Guthrie, or maybe Billy Joel. Perhaps a young, hillbilly Elton John? Actually he reminds me most of a singer from an old Punk band called The Robots, but since I’m sure all of about 7 people have actually heard them, I realize that comparison does nothing for you. Still, you get an idea. The album eventually does reveal him to be a great singer. Pillmann’s only flaw might be an occasional Southern drawl not unlike Scott Weiland’s on the first Stone Temple Pilots album. Peculiar as Sep7ember hail from Germany. Their big hit, “I Hate NY,” is up next. A better song, but a little too happy for me, however, this chorus begins to expose just how powerful Pillmann can be. Next up is “Run,” the album’s first stab at poignancy and sincerity and it works surprisingly well. This is the first song I’m able to fully embrace. It’s followed by “One Thing,” which is hindered by the aforementioned redneck voice vibe. But even this chorus will grow on you if you let it. The real highlight of Strange Ways… is the middle of the album (tracks 5-8). The heartfelt resonance of “So” and “Bitterness” comprise some of the best Indie Rock since Interpol’s Antics LP, while “Rocket to Somewhere” and “Carpets” hint at the best Grunge I’ve heard since Kurt Cobain dyed his hair red and refused to do interviews. Speaking of Cobain, Pillmann has a similar lyrical philosophy, i.e. using words that fit the verses and make the songs catchier as opposed to always needing to make sense. The rest of the album isn’t quite as good. “Gods Are Laughing” also suffers from that damned hillbilly drawl and overuse of the Wah-Wah pedal (note: any use of Wah-Wah pedal is overuse of Wah-Wah pedal… let it go). “Superhero Smash Hit Wonder” sounds like some kind of modern U2 filler with lyrics as bad as the song title suggests. “Remaining Days” is an anti-racism song. Really? Racism’s over, guys. People hate themselves these days, not others. “All Quiet” is a moving but energetic tune which serves as a fitting album closer since the actual last song is just a lackluster acoustic version of “So.” In summary, I am simply torn. This is a record that is only 54% good, yet I can’t stop listening to that damn 54% over and over and over again. It’s not even remotely Metal, but it’s seriously fucking addictive. You’ll just have to decide for yourself, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.

Just when you think that you’ve heard it all, two Italian Black Metal bands team up to record a bunch of GG Allin covers. Oddly enough, this 7-inch record comes with a CD containing all four of the tracks on the vinyl, plus one bonus song from each band. I’ve never heard of Whiskey Ritual before, but their Punk-Rock-with-sorta-Black-Metal-vocals versions of “Die When You Die,” “Bite It You Scum,” and especially “Drink, Fight and Fuck” (I used to be in a band that also covered it, so it’s long been a favorite) are very energetic and supremely well done, with a clear sound that’s just on the correct side of being too polished. Of course, I have no idea if this is anywhere close to the band’s normal sound/style, but I think that I’d better track down their 2010 album, In Goat We Trust, and find out. Forgotten Tomb is likewise impressive with their surprisingly straightforward renditions of “Expose Yourself to Kids,” “Gipsy Motherfucker,” and another of my favorite GG songs, “I Kill Everything I Fuck.” I had been very curious to hear how Forgotten Tomb would Black Metalize these tracks, but I’m not at all disappointed that they didn’t. Maybe it’s just because I’m high on a mix of NyQuil and embalming fluid right now, but I think that I’d like to hear some more of this.

I’ve lost track of how many years have dissipated into fading memory since I last saw my old friend Dan “The Maniac” Dominiak, but when I ran into him at the recent Cianide, Johnny Vomit, Cardiac Arrest, Bones show (which was fucking legendary, by the way), it was like no time had passed at all. Dan is without question one of the coolest human beings living on this wretched planet, so I was overjoyed when he gave me his band’s newest CD. Since then, I have listened to Time to Shine 666 times, trying to force myself to like it more than I really do. Let me start with the good stuff, of which there is plenty. The recording, mix, and production are absolutely flawless. Holy shit does this sound great. The playing is also phenomenal, especially Patrick’s bass work, which is mixed loud, just how I like it. The lyrics have moments of brilliance, such as “The Administration“‘s answer to Obama’s depressingly false-hope “Yes we can” campaign catchphrase: “No we can’t.” Even the packaging is impressive, with gold foil stamping. It’s just Dustin’s Pop Punk, Alternative vocals that get me. Okay, and maybe an errant riff here and there. But it’s mostly the singing, which mutates from song to song, occasionally, as in “A New Nation,” sounding decidedly like Alice in Chains. That might even be considered a compliment by some, but the track “Jericho,” with little more than sparse acoustic guitar to stand behind the most vexatious vocal performance on the album, is practically unlistenable, forcing me to skip past it 663 of my aforementioned 666 spins. If the singing wouldn’t be a problem for you, consider this much closer to a ten, since musically there are nearly zero flaws.

Negativity be praised! The Suicidal Depressive Black Metal subgenre seems to be thriving as new releases come pouring in now from all over the globe. So many of these bands continue to go unnoticed by the major Metal press, it’s almost like the tape trading days. Perhaps there is one last remaining faction of the underground unmolested by the internet’s all-consuming gayness? Although I suppose without the web we could not even begin to reach the majority of these lesser known acts. Take for instance Heartless, a one-man project all the way from the Shandong Province of China. Finding quality Extreme Metal from China is no small task, but to find quality SDBM… well, that’s like finding fried rice without happy faggot, lifeloving onions. I would assume day-to-day existence in China could have the potential to beget many causes of depression for some. That certainly seems to be the case for Lu, who is the “all instruments/vocals” mastermind behind Heartless. I’m guessing the man is a student of Burzum’s classic Filosofem album, as his style is similarly bleak, slow and repetitive, with very lengthy tracks (four cuts and an intro equaling over 46 minutes). You might also find some choice Forgotten Tomb in his collection, Ravishing Grimness perhaps, maybe even some old Katatonia, and a few Death/Doom essentials as well. The feeling strived for on Anaesthetization is pure emptiness. A totally grim and hopeless void. If you’re searching for avant-garde experimentation, technical prowess, weird-for-the-sake-of-weird posing, or flashy showmanship, you should look elsewhere. Lu will generally craft a simple, melodic riff or two out of pure sorrow and ride it indefinitely into the nearing grave. It’s far from groundbreaking or original, but it is effective. This isn’t music designed to pack coliseums and amphitheaters. This is music best reserved for no light, complete solitude, and your intoxicant of choice. Hail misery. Hail despair. Bleakest of the bleak: “Anxiety” and “Illusion.”