He is hater of the rotten Earth
He is the nova that will drape the sky in woe
We drink from his poisoned water
He is lord of those who dwell bound in sickness
Spitting vomit in the face of faith
Cleansing us who must atone for being weak
We drink from his poisoned water
He is the shadow cast upon the those defiled

Victorious call
It will not befall
No salvation is free
Death comes beckoning me
Encircle thee
Voices come in wind
Son of perdition
You come beckoning me

The sky embedded in the death of a nova
Effigy is seen in a second of light
No voice in the crack of his mouth
BASTARD SON OF GOD!!

In today’s overcrowded musical climate, unsigned Metal bands rarely turn heads. With six months now being considered a generation, there isn’t enough time to keep an eye on the developmental league. In the case of Dallas’s Protest, however, great lengths have been traveled to ensure they catch your eye. With an all-pro self-financed layout and snazzy full color press release boasting a mixing job by Tim Kimsey of King Diamond/Mercyful Fate fame, The Corruption Code promises not to look or sound like your average demo. But who gives a shit, right? Everyone knows that you’ve got to have money to make money, but what you might not have known is that drums on this album were performed by Malevolent Creation’s Gus Rios, and it also features a guest vocal spot from Absu’s Proscriptor. Now you’ve got my attention! So, wait a minute… how is this band unsigned? It only takes one listen to reveal that unfortunate answer. Musically, Protest are a little late to the party. Guys, don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome that you can play all these Slayer riffs —I’m sure you’d dominate open mic night at any watering hole in the Midwest— but carbon copies tend to fade after three decades. I mean, these riffs and solos are lifted straight from the Reign in Blood tablature book! That would be cool… if you guys were Slayer and the year was 1986. You’re not. It’s not. It doesn’t help that frontman Jason Burris’s vocals are of the strained, shouted, tough guy variety. A couple times he’s even reminiscent of an inbred faggot whose last name rhymes with Hans Elmo. And that Proscriptor cameo? Just a short, high-pitched wail to open the last song. So, despite their “star power” selling points, Protest are ultimately a band no one does, will, or should care about. An unofficial Slayer tribute band with a good drummer and a shitty vocalist. The type of band that plays at noon on the first day of a 3-day Metalfest.

I have no idea why I didn’t review Blaze’s previous release, 2010’s excellent Promise and Terror. I meant to, but somehow it slipped through the cracks. Maybe I listened to it so much that I thought I’d already reviewed it? Maybe I’m psychic and subconsciously knew that I’d later regret giving Blaze a positive review? I don’t know how or why I neglected that album, but it was a truly amazing slab of traditional Heavy Metal, with a somewhat more modern production to beef up the crystal clear sound. It was so good that Blaze was apparently driven insane under its weight, and during (or perhaps just before) the supporting tour, fired his entire band and hired different scab musicians in every town to back him up. For real. Shit doesn’t get much more idiotic than that (although Blaze would find a way… several, actually), so I was understandably more than a little nervous about him recording a new album. And then I saw the ridiculously hubristic title: The King of Metal. The King? Really, Blaze? You? Not Halford? (Okay, he’s the Queen of Metal.) Not Dickinson? Not Dio? Not Lemmy? Not about 666 dudes more worthy of that title than Blaze cunting Bayley? Holy fuck. And then I noticed the “record label,” Blaze Bayley Recordings, which has, of course, only ever released Blaze Bayley albums. But still, I wanted this to be good. I dared to hope! Then I saw the track list. Second song: “Dimebag.” Could there be any chance that Blaze is talking about buying weed? Nope. It’s a love song to the ghost of that bitch from Pantera. I am glad that he is dead. I wish they had all been murdered. Let me spell this out for you: Pantera was a marketing gimmick, not a Metal band. If you don’t believe me, take a peek at their complete discography, including the early Glam albums they would later deny existed. Pantera was a corporate creation, not actual artists, and simply a way for their record company to safely present “rebellion” to the masses and relieve them of their cash. They did not create art, they produced products. But, I digress, so back to this particular musical miscarriage. Admittedly, the playing here is occasionally aggressive in places, mostly the drumming, and there are a few okay riffs, but the production is really lacking and unpolished. Surprisingly so. And the brief moments of okayness are far overshadowed by the sickening Butt Rock tendencies in some tracks (“The Black Country,” “One More Step,” “Judge Me,” “Beginning”), and Blaze’s intense, preposterous lust for the sound of his own strained, fading voice above all else (often, not surprisingly, greatly de-emphasizing the band to highlight it). It’s the difference between being in a band that writes actual songs, and thinking that your singing is so awesome and moving and perfect that you only need music at all just to back you up and quiet those mean jerks who expect guitars. It’s being a cunt, honestly. This was made even more annoyingly clear when Blaze recently scheduled a string of a cappella performances. (Not a joke - Google it.) Seriously, the guy who would call himself the King of Metal thinks that he doesn’t need guitars or drums. Fuck you, Blaze. Fuck you for making an album so offensively shitty that it has retroactively damaged your previous work. I’m glad that I didn’t review Promise and Terror because I’d now be embarrassed, and you should be, too.

Considering that Deadborn features ex-members of Necrophagist, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that the sprightly titled Mayhem Maniac Machine is little more than an endurance exercise in sterile, mechanical-sounding, brutal Death Metal. Don’t get your Atheist boxers in a bunch, Necrophagist fans. I acknowledge your favorite fretboard scientists’ amazing skill and exhilarating live performance, I merely require songs to be memorable as I’ve reached a stage of the game where pyrotechnics have lost their pizzazz. Deadborn definitely aren’t short of talent either, however, it’s brutal, it’s fast, it isn’t much else. Calculated, unfeeling technicality rapidly stabs in unison with flour-sifter drumming while the vocalist just keeps going on about “cybernetics-this,” “cryonics-that,” a “bionic” here, a “cortex” there. Dude, I’m 33. I don’t speak binary code, man. This is why I change the channel when Star Trek comes on. Mario Petrovic’s vocals are undeniably all-pro. A deep, Frank Mullenesque, intelligible roar with a wealth of deadly potential, should Cybertron ever cease to be his muse. Raymond Babbitt couldn’t tell these songs apart. It’s just an endless series of interchangeable 26-note riffs and robotic snare punishment. When they do attempt to switch up the pace a little, it isn’t enough. By the time you reach the grimy Industrial outro, “Kraftwerk D,” you’ve forgotten who you were listening to. These guys certainly aren’t slouches and this is not a bad record, it’s just mind-numbingly boring.

Now that The Devil’s Blood and Blood Ceremony have made a combined $8, rest assured we’re bound to see a gaggle of imitators clamoring for a piece of that fortune. In all fairness to this trio, I’m sure they were each involved in boring, recondite projects long before The Devil’s Blood hit our shores, but since no one cares… I will say, at least they had the decency to mark this album with a disclaimer that warns would-be purchasers that the contents of Constantinople are intended for the sterile, ineffectual Safe Metal class of ex-heshers who’ve recently become parents and now feel the need to tone down their musical preferences. That disclaimer, of course, being the seal of Neurot Recordings. And, once again, in all fairness to Ides of Gemini, they aren’t really Metal of any kind. Truth is, the three-piece themselves probably couldn’t advise you on what to call their music, since they’re essentially just doing some laid back jamming. Categorization is such a cheap heterosexual tool anyway, however, a safe assessment might be Art Rock, or maybe Post-Rock. Or maybe Post-Folk? Have we used Post-Folk yet? Post-College Doom? Doo-Wop Fusion? Think about it. I don’t know, what do you call it when Decibel writer J Bennett plugs in to his Peavey Bandit 112 and starts churning out completely disjointed Stoner riffs and ’70s Rock hooks? One hot chick plays minimalist hippie percussion while another hot chick gives it her best Mazzy Star try. I don’t think Deci-Bot would even know what to do with this one. They also credit the hot chick singer with playing bass, but I definitely don’t hear any bass guitar being played on this album. Do you? Oh wait, there it is on “Reaping Golden.” My bad. I guess they just turned the bass down because it was waking the baby. HA!

Just what every grown man needs. To listen to some guy jack off for 47 minutes. Guitar albums. What a fucking waste of time. I want to come home from work and listen to some douchebag with too much fucking free time play faggy guitar solo after faggy guitar solo on top of basic Thrash templates. This is the ex-fag from Nevermore doing his own gay shit. Cool, another guitar solo. Did I just hear bells? What a fag. Way to put bells on your gay guitar solo album, dude. Cool, more solos. This fag can really play his guitar well. Good for him. “Look at me, mommy! Watch me swim in the deep end, mommy! I can do it, mommy! Mommy, you’re not lookin’! Lookit, mommy! Mommy, lookit!” That’s what I think of guitar albums. That’s what I hear. Hey, this fag just played another guitar solo. Awesome! That’s totally what this album needed. I like your Meshuggah riff, dude. And that blast beat was fire. It sure is fun listening to you practice. “You’re doing it, Jeffy, you’re doing it! Mommy’s so proud of her lil Jeffy! That’s mommy’s lil Jeffy. Go Jeffy go!” Not all of the songs on this guitar-solo-gay-pride-parade are instrumentals. Because what a stupid fucking idea it would be to have a whole album of a fag playing guitar solos without any vocals at all, right? That would just be silly. So, four of the songs feature guest cunt vocals from some cunt, and one of the songs features guest vocals from Ihsahn, who wasn’t always a cunt, but is pretty much a cunt now. Some fags from Megadeth also drop by to play more guitar solos. Because that’s what the album was really lacking, more guitar solos by different fags. If you’ve reached a point in your life where this kind of thing sounds appealing, just kill yourself. You’re already dead… and gay.

It’s no surprise that a band named Revel in Flesh would owe a little something to Entombed, and that’s certainly the case here as the stains of the classic Sunlight sound permeate Deathevokation’s every nook and cranny, but the sources of inspiration don’t stop there. It’s a safe bet that this German duo have spun Seance’s Saltrubbed Eyes and Dismember’s Massive Killing Capacity a time or two, but the band they remind me of most is the mighty Fleshcrawl. So much so that a triple-check was in order to ensure this wasn’t actually some new Fleshcrawl incarnation. At this point in the review it should be clear to originality seekers that they’ll need to look elsewhere, but those who worship unconditionally at the altar of Swedeath may very well have found their new band of the month. Revel in Flesh definitely have all the tools to propel themselves near the top of the NWOOSSDM heap, and while this album doesn’t really have a wealth of standout cuts to mention, records don’t get much more solid as a whole. Every thunderous bass-drum kick explodes like a pipe bomb going off in your colon, every tremolo-picked melody summons mental visions of Dismember running shirtless and covered in blood through the “Soon to be Dead” video, and Ralf Hauber’s bestial growl is deathvastating enough to scare away a mountain lion. Plus some guy named Dan Swano mastered it at some place called Unisound. Originality might come with age as the band progresses, but for now their unashamed homage to the most carnal of leftovers has this Death Metal fiend more than pleasantly placated.

This is my first encounter with Montreal’s Towards Darkness (formerly known as The Mass), but just by popping the disc in you can tell you’re in for Funeral Doom. Their sophomore outing consists of four tracks that total five minutes shy of an hour, so this is either Funeral Doom or a short EP with a hidden bonus track 45 minutes after the last song. (I’ve had about enough of that shit, by the way. Just what I want when I’m driving… dead silence for who knows how long!) Album opener “The Arrival” confirms my suspicion. This is definitely Funeral Doom and there’s going to be a lot of it. Luckily the leadoff track succeeds at creating an abysmal, synth-laden atmosphere akin to the likes of scene giants Shape of Despair, a euphoric feeling of dejection at the speed of a meaningless life. Kevin Jones’ throaty scream may be considered lightweight for this genre, but it’s tormented enough to get the job one. Unfortunately after “The Arrival,” these guys waste no time wasting time, as follow-up 16-minute epic “Avenues of Manipulation” feels like an intro for eight agonizing minutes. Once the vocals kick in, the song achieves the same downtrodden majesty as its predecessor, but is the payoff worth the tedious wait if this single vibe is all the band does really well? “Holy…Dying…Lifting” is next with a more palatable length of eleven minutes, but again it feels like an eternity before it gets off the ground. Six minutes of background noise, Morse code, and lifeless dirges to begin the song? Really? And an abrupt ending to boot. The album closes with the 18-minute, ironically titled “Awakening,” and by now I get it. The band shows promise but does not have it figured out yet. Funeral Doom just might be the toughest style to pull off after all. As alluring as Barren begins, it ends up being the musical equivalent of Advil PM.

I generally hate doing EP reviews because with only two or three songs to listen to, it’s hard to tell how good a band is or where they’re at musically. Even with established bands, EPs tend to be hit-or-miss affairs. A Ceremony at the Edge of a Burning Page is a fairly good EP. Bishop of Hexen comes from an era when sounding like Cradle of Filth didn’t immediately get you called a poser faggot. And these guys do sound a lot like Cradle of Filth. Even after all of these years, Bishop of Hexen still has trouble shaking the comparison. I don’t know if that is going to help or hurt their prospects for recording and releasing a new album. The band has been on hiatus for the last several years and this release is essentially to let their fans know that they’re still active. The two songs on display here are pretty standard fare for BoH. The first thing that you notice, besides the obvious Cradle of Filth comparison, is that the guitars are barely audible at best. I think that I hear them clearly for about five seconds on the first song and then they get buried underneath the massive keyboard sound. This fourteen-minute EP is essentially snarling vocals, symphonic keyboards and blasting drums. If I were the guys playing the guitars and the bass, I’d be pretty pissed. Honestly, what’s the point of having a bass player and two guitarists if you don’t ever hear them? They may as well not even be there. I was never a huge fan of this band, mostly because if I wanted to listen to Cradle of Filth, I already owned several of their albums. Clone bands never got a lot of space in my CD collection and while Bishop of Hexen did a fairly good job of it, they were still one of the clones. If you’re already a fan and you have to have everything they put out, you’ll probably enjoy this as much as anything else they’ve done. The rest of us aren’t really missing anything.