There was a time when I was a naive, wide-eyed, horny youngster. Days felt like weeks, the world was my playground, and the grass was greener (and got me higher). Those were the days I wanted to hear and write about every Metal band there was, and the labels knew how to take care of you back then. They not only sent you a real copy of the shit, but you got posters, bios, photos, stickers, etc. Which leads me to the only pleasant memory I have of Italy’s Opera IX, a poster of the lovely lead vocalist Cadaveria. A dark, Italian, sinister sex goddess - one of my many weaknesses. I still have that poster up by my bed. The CD I sold for crack aeons ago. Now times have changed. I’ll soon be staring down the backside of 30. Review copies are downloaded and you’re lucky to get a tracklist. All that arrives in the mail are bills. By now I’ve realized no beautiful Italian women want anything to do with me, and that I’ll never have Cadaveria’s ankles up by her ears. She’s not even in the band anymore. Nowadays it’s always just some dude. I don’t even remember what Opera IX sounded like back in the day, but Strix is a completely bland, emotionless record. Black Metal-tinged melodic Thrash with cheap synths and boring vocals. There isn’t a split second of this album that is memorable, powerful, or commanding of attention. This is a band playing instruments purely for therapeutic purposes, writing lifeless songs and chanting intros for their own amusement. No idea how anyone could derive enjoyment from this completely barren musical landscape. Embarrassingly non-threatening, unable to tap into even the most banal human emotion, and now not even any sex to sell. I’d like to provide an example as to why it’s such a dismal failure, but the level of dullness is so overwhelming, when I listen it’s hard to focus for more than 30 seconds. Try eating plain bread for every meal for a week (with water for did-doodly-dippin’). The high water mark of this band’s career is still that 12-year old, semen-encrusted poster.

Quebecois Death merchants Beneath the Massacre just might be the heaviest band of all time. I don’t mean heavy like virgins in Alaska think Dim Mak is heavy, I’m talking about going-out-for-a jog-at-2:45 a.m.-on-Monday, August 6, 1945-in Hiroshima heavy. I’m talking about paying-child-support-for-18-years-and-then-finding-out-it-isn’t-yours heavy. This is the real shit. One of the many things to love about these guys is that they don’t fuck around with intros. From the second you press play you’re subjected to a tidal wave of inhuman speed, barbaric heaviness, a mind bending array of dizzying scales and fretboard pyrotechnics, and the ridiculously brutal vocals of Elliot Desgagnes. Dude sounds like some kind of demon-possessed Decepticon. It’s like Destro with radiation poisoning and a pitch shifter. The only drawback of a Beneath the Massacre album is that nothing else seems heavy in its wake. Try it, listen to Incongruous start-to-finish, then pop in an old favorite. Symphonies of Sickness sounds like really energetic Rockabilly after this shit. Scum sounds like 4th grade-level talent show material. Even the long-standing tradition of heavy-hitting Canadian Tech Death that surely inspired Beneath the Massacre (old Kataklysm, old Cryptopsy, old Neuraxis) seems tame by comparison. Of course, I’m speaking in terms of sheer sonic power here, not necessarily songwriting quality. Still, I’ve never heard a close-range machine gun battle from the trenches, but I’m assuming this is pretty much what it sounds like. If I had one minor complaint, it would seem to be the band have all but abandoned their trademark breakneck groove and osmium-heavy breakdowns. With the Deathcore and Metalcore tags being seen more and more as a pox on the musical landscape, it comes as no surprise. We aren’t even treated to a proper breakdown until the monstrous “Light,” at about the halfway point of the record. As the band continue to evolve towards full-on Grind, the less frequent use of dynamics and tempo change doesn’t make their potent attack any less impressive or dangerous, just a bit less memorable.

There was a time when I was excited to hear about a new Brutal Death Metal band. While I loved bands like Vile (the shit with Juan on vocals), Nile and even Incantation (live only - their albums always bored me to tears, but they fucking killed live), it’s been a long time since a band like Murder Intentions got me interested. The problem with Murder Intentions is that not only are they fairly unoriginal, but they have the same fatal flaw that most Brutal Death Metal bands have: they’re boring. This is brutal as all fucking Hell, but it just doesn’t go anywhere. The main reason for it is that everything falls into a narrow tonal range and it chugs along at a standard pace. There are literally no surprises here. One song sounds pretty much like all of the others, except for the last track, “On the Sending Out of the Soul,” which is essentially a six minute long outro. It’s long, boring and pointless - much like the rest of this album, but in a different way.

I don’t know if I’d want to live in Metalville if the bands there sound like this. I’m simply in shock at the subhuman shit sadistically torturing my puzzled ears at the moment. Easily one of the worst bands I’ve ever heard in my life. Try to imagine dumbed down Alice in Chains colliding with the ’80s LA Glam scene, combined with the modern day horrors of Buckcherry, Hinder, Nickelback, or similar genetic debris. Sleazy strip club Rock (if strippers danced to unknown, 10th-rate hillbilly bands — they do not) about as dangerous as an electric candle. Their only aspect that’s even remotely Metal is lead singer Mark Sunshine’s slight resemblance to the late, great Ronnie James Dio (if Ronnie James Dio had been an inbred talentless hack with 3rd grade-level lyrical skills — he was not), that is when he’s not disgracing the memory of Layne Staley (please see “Fool”). Some of these excerpts are priceless. “Long ago I was conceived / I was introduced to you by you / Baby, let’s get to work / Feelin’ my sweat begin to bead / Pleasin’ / Teasin’ / I’m in the elevator goin’ up / Yer savin’ the Earth from me, baby / Yeah / Yeah / Yeah / Ooh, it’s good, it’s good / Ooh, it’s bad, it’s bad!” Nothing an altar boy hasn’t already heard from a Catholic priest a thousand times. I’ve learned that any singer who repeatedly claims “I ain’t no fool” is only trying to convince himself. But the lyrics are pure genius compared to the music. The main riff in “Breed” lowered my I.Q. by 12 points. Godsmack want their lame riff back on “Crossfade.” (Yes, they named a song after a band they hope to open up for one day. For now I’m assuming it’s birthday parties, proms, and Open Mic Nights.) “Gas Station Roses” would be a sweet little acoustic jam… if I were into Jimmy Buffet — I am not.

Very unorthodox but effective one-man SDBM from Russia. I am reminded of Vinterriket, Skepticism, and Summoning. Not necessarily in style, but in feel and approach. Much like those bands, Annorkoth achieves a unique vibe through unconventional production. A mysterious and unearthly vibe where the instruments seem to exist on different plains, giving the songs layers within themselves, dynamics within dynamics. It’s certainly an odd mix, but I’d assume it’s intentional and it definitely works. The vocals and drums are buried faintly in the mix, while the keyboards, cymbals, and guitars are mastered so high they make the speakers pop like a campfire. The keyboard might play the most prominent role of all the instruments. I wouldn’t be surprised if the songs were built around them. The harshest thing I can say is that the drum programming leaves a little to be desired. And on the off chance that main man B.M. is playing real drums, he sounds a lot like a badly programmed drum machine. But the atmosphere saves the album. It’s damn hard to deny the somber, mournful elegance of “The Mysteries of Winter Forest,” the suicidal Waltz of “The Last Chance to Escape,” the total Burzum worship of the aptly titled “Shades of Misanthropy,” the gentle blasting of “Autumnal Remembrance,” or the beautiful clean guitar passage of instrumental “Dawn.” He even wrote a song about me (“An Insignificant Life”). There are moments of mind-wandering boredom, but they’re few and far between. At his best, B.M. invokes feelings of dejected misery through moments of epic majesty. Proving there is more than one way to cut a wrist.

Pact is the latest horde that the Moribund Cult has discovered lurking in the foulest depths of the USBM scene. Musically, this is some pretty fast, crazy Black Metal that rips your face off almost immediately. The guitars are deadly, the vocals are rancid and the atmosphere is oppressively evil, but what kills it is the horrible drum sound. The bass drums are abominable and the snare isn’t much better. The bass drums literally sound like a light switch being flicked on and off rapidly. The only time I’ve ever heard anything comparable was when a local band called Infestation played live. The drummer had a quarter or some other small piece of metal glued to his bass drums so that when he used his pedals, the drums would produce a high pitched clicking sound instead of a deep bass tone like they should have. And the snare tone… It literally sounds like someone banging on a trashcan lid. Granted, it isn’t nearly as bad as the bass drums, but in combination, it fucks with the atmosphere and the flow of the music by adding a disruptive element that works against it. If Pact had someone working the engineer’s booth that knew how to get the best drum tone, this album would be a fucking ten. The music is that sick. I can totally see why Moribund signed this band because the talent is there. If Pact can get their drum tone sorted out, their next album will fucking slay. The Dragon Lineage of Satan is almost there, but technical issues pull this down from the top spot.

Aborted vocalist and sole original member, Sven de Caluwe, is the first to admit the band phoned in a record or two during a mid-career dead-end phase that saw them leaning more towards breakdown-fueled Metalcore than the ferocious Gore-Grind unit they began as. Given that agreeable statement, a revamped lineup, and their flawless return to de-form in 2010 (the Coronary Reconstruction EP), it’s safe to say that Global Flatline is undoubtedly the most anticipated release of the Belgian Death squad’s 14-year career. A preliminary scan of the tracklist reveals nearly all of the 2010 EP has been re-recorded for the album, as well as “Nailed Through Her Cunt” from, arguably the band’s finest hour, 2001’s Engineering the Dead (the Palestinian version also contains another re-recorded cut from that LP as a bonus track, but I was not fortunate enough to track that one down). So discounting the intro (“Omega Mortis”) and glorified 6-minute outro (“Endstille”), we’re only getting 8 new songs here. No big deal as long as it kicks ass, right? But does the album live up to expectations? Yes and no. First and foremost, it doesn’t have the same level of addictive filth and blood-curdling grime as the EP did, which the re-recordings certainly prove. It could just be the album’s immaculate production. Perhaps crystalline to the point of sterilization? Just a theory. I guess I’d also be complaining if it sounded like it was recorded via answering machine. Still, it’s difficult to identify what else could be the problem. It’s definitely not the band’s playing, which is tighter than Natalie Portman’s wormhole. However, weeks of repeated listening have failed to expose a standout track or a defining moment. There’s assloads of guest vocal appearances including Trevor Strnad (Black Dahlia Murder), Keijo Niinima (Rotten Sound), Jason Netherton (Misery Index), and Julien Truchan (Benighted), but the album’s such a surgically precise blur of no-frills Death/Grind that it’s hard to pinpoint who is where and when. Sven’s wide vocal range (gargling embalming fluid to throaty scream) makes it even tougher. This is by no means a bad record -the band’s revitalized sense of purpose and passion is evident in every chug and blast- but that lack of standout material and an absence of dynamics within the crush/kill/destroy framework does make it seem as though regress has been halted. Or maybe I’m just pissed that there’s no Left Hand Path covers…

I realize it’s a bit early to call Album of 2012, but honestly unless a new Katatonia record sees the light of day this year, this is going to be it. For me personally, Alcest is rapidly approaching Katatonia territory. And if you didn’t know, that means the greatest-fucking-band-of-all-time bracket. Vastly different styles, but both bands are similar in that they manifest human emotion with their music. We’re talking about musicians who can create that same feeling you had when you looked into the eyes of the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen and fell in love with her instantly. Heart palpitations, stomach butterflies, goosebumps and all. Also present in their tunes is that ache in your chest when you realized she would never be yours. What’s remarkable about Alcest mastermind Neige, is that the man has made me cry numerous times without singing a word in English. That’s right, it’s all in French. I can’t understand a single word he’s saying, but lo and behold 2:20 into album opener “Autre Temps” and my eyes are already tearing up. Equally remarkable is that Alcest’s music turns me into this sobbing, quivering shell of a man without the use of negative energy or dissonance, but with uplifting, delicate, heavenly passages. This would easily appeal to any fan of music, even those far outside the Metal spectrum. In fact, no band has given such legitimacy to the term Shoegaze since The Cure. Neige’s Black Metal voice does make itself welcome on the epic, “La Ou Naissent les Couleurs Nouvelles,” and the soaring “Faiseurs de Mondes,” however, it’s safe to say Alcest the Black Metal band’s days are well behind them. But with flawless LPs like this and the two that preceded it (2007’s Souvenirs d’un Autre Monde and 2010’s Ecailles de Lune), quit bitching, bitch. The title track has literally made every hair on my body (which is sadly a lot of fucking hairs, barring the scalp, of course) stand straight the fuck up on multiple occasions. That feeling is why I buy records. There simply isn’t a single moment of this absolutely perfect album that doesn’t sweep you away to the innocence of childhood, only to reveal the infinite sadness of decaying agony that the present day’s mirror bears. I hear some folks saying that Alcest’s music is becoming predictable. To those people, all I can say is vous etes un homosexuel heureux!

I’ve been militantly avoiding this band for well over a decade. After the absolutely abysmal Satanik Terrorism CD, I swore that I would never spend another penny on this band ever again. Satanik Terrorism (or as I referred to it back then, Satanik Hearing Damage) was so bad that I wanted to give it a rating in negative numbers. In Nomine Odium is a million times better than Satanik Terrorism in that you can actually listen to this album without wanting to surgically extract your eardrums with whatever is conveniently available. In Nomine Odium still has sound issues. One of the cymbals is still too high and the guitars seem to lack definition at times. The combination of the two with the distortion-laden vocals results in a ball of sound that borders on white noise. Another thing about this album is that it seems to have a lack of identity. It sounds like old Mayhem as played by Transylvanian Hunger era Darkthrone, but without the distinctive songs. Most of the tracks have that old Mayhem feel in terms of sound, but they could easily be the same track played over and over again because they are structurally very much the same. While this isn’t the abomination that Satanik Terrorism was, it isn’t enough for me to rescind my boycott of Haemoth.