KON!!!!! You fiend! Another one? Already? It’s well-documented that I only read while shitting, and a new book from my favorite author every handful of months means a vicious cycle of binge-eating and rampant defecation that has me one Bacon Habanero Quarter Pounder away from cardiac arrest. I was 175 lbs. of solid muscle when Psycho began his publishing career. Now I can only score with chicks who have an inner-thigh boil fetish. I think it’s time Jon financed a personal trainer for his biggest fan (literally and figuratively speaking), or at least got me a pallet of that military-grade Lipozene that killed Pete Steele. Truthfully, there are worse ways to get fat. The second I opened Thunderbird and saw chapters titled “Hate-Fucking Shrimp Platters on Groundhog Day,” “Bearded Women Shitting on Glass Tables Is Sort of My Thing,” “Just Because I’m a Pisces Doesn’t Mean I Want to Watch You Eat a Whale Fucker Sandwich,” and “Death Metal Taco Bell,” much like Rafael Carlos Revel, I was able to see the future, and it involved many nights of my legs falling asleep on the porcelain throne ahead. I didn’t know how Psycho was going to top 2012’s Sleep Has No Master. Come to find out, he doesn’t have to. All he needs to do is maintain the untouchable level he’s already reached, and with this new tome he’s done just that. (That’d be like me trying to enhance masturbation by doing the David Carradine when I already get that perfect Peter North load every time just by using John Smoltz’ split-finger fastball grip.) Konrath’s fiction is absurdist delight. These stories are funnier than rear-view motorcycle accidents and more disturbing than watching someone chew lettuce thoroughly. I’m actually tired of talking about how good this guy is. Chances are if you aren’t aware of his talent by now, you’re too much of a douchebag to deserve experiencing it. The only thing holding Thunderbird back is an alarming number of typos. This book has more errors than a Chicago Cubs infield. Kon needs to kidnap one of those Jewish kids from the national spelling bee and harvest it for copy editing and/or the sex-slave trade. In his defense, portions of this book were written in the back of numerous Uncle Kenny’s Sex Dungeons throughout London and Germany, and we all know the European franchises aren’t always as well lit. Mistakes aside, this is still a can’t-put-it-down read. Lucifer Our Lord funny with frightening attention to detail and a sex drive that’d make Michael Douglas seem gay.
Note: Don’t even think about reading this one on your gold iPhone, you snooty cunt. When you buy the paperback version you get the bonus zombie chapter, and if you’re gay enough to not care… welcome to the world of AIDS.
Note to self: Start Death Metal band called The Shotgun Abortionist.

I’ve been hating life + afraid to die since the 3rd Grade. Needless to say, I’m always on the lookout for quality Suicidal Depressive Black Metal. Truth is, it’s a rarity. There isn’t a ton of middle ground when it comes to this genre. Albums usually get thrown into one of two piles: “fucking awesome” or “fucking joke.” Lately it seems that latter pile is stacking up much higher and faster than the former. Half of these acts don’t even have vocalists, and the other half… well, you wish they didn’t. (I can’t remember the group, but a recent demo submission actually featured a singer whose Black Metal pseudonym was Stinky.) So, when a band like Hateful Agony comes along that, ironically, does tread the middle ground somewhat, it’s hard not to grade on a curve. This corpse-painted trio brings absolutely nothing new to the table —I honestly have a tough time even telling their songs apart— but they play the style the right way. That means sadness, sadness, misery, sadness, hate, sadness, and then more sadness… the way of all life and the way of all music that doesn’t suck balls. They have the melancholic sensibility of an Indie Rock band filtered through the bitterness and rage of Black Metal at a Doomy pace, all tied together with a filthy lo-fi bow. They do have their fair share of boring instrumentals as well —four to be exact; an intro, intermission, outro, and Xasthur cover— but when those bleak melodies break through the wall of crispy Necro and Lord Doryan Wolf’s acidic Burzumesque rasp blankets every last vestige of hope, it’s an undeniably enjoyable spin. I’m perfectly okay with them sounding like every other SDBM band as long as it’s every other SDBM band in the aforementioned “fucking awesome” pile. Perhaps the only thing truly unique about Hateful Agony is their locale. Sao Paulo, Brazil? Really? Suicidally depressed Brazilians? Well, I’ve always been a firm believer that anyone can be miserable anywhere, and this is unequivocal proof. Even in the land of sandy beaches, bronzed bodies, and waxed pussies there are hooded miscreants hoping that big statue of Jesus falls on the country’s best soccer player right before the World Cup. Todos saudam a nossa Negatividade Deusa!

So, I finally get to experience the group Joey Lawrence wouldn’t shut up about on that lame sitcom. Truth be told, this hasn’t been an actual group all that long. Beginning as the one-man project of vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Chris Grigg, on the first four releases —a demo and split in ‘07, a split and full-length in ‘08— Woe was him. It wasn’t until 2010’s sophomore LP Quietly, Undramatically that his Black Metal vision began to blossom (HA!) into a full band. Again, Withdrawal is my first time hearing them, but I’d be willing to wager that the transitional process has been a rough one for Grigg. I’m counting seven different members in five years, with two drummers and two bassists already getting the boot. This current quartet —rounded out notably by guitarist Ben Brand (Tombs), drummer Shawn Eldridge (Disma, Funebrarum), and Grzesiek Czapla (a multi-instrumentalist in his own right)— shows definite signs of competently gelling, but there’s still some work to be done. About one-third of the time, Woe dazzle and slay the listener with a scattered bevy of Bad Ass Hall of Fame-worthy riffs and arrangements —the left-field Thrash attack on “Carried by Waves to Remorseless Shores of the Truth,” and icy, melodic blast furnace of “All Bridges Burned” immediately spring to mind— but that other two-thirds is so boring you forget you’re even listening to music. I think they try to do too much, which is a common hindrance with USBM bands. The incorporation of too many different elements and vibes until all that’s remembered is a chaotic, jumbled mess. For instance, “Song of My Undoing” opens with a wicked Burzumesque stomp, then briefly turns into a Post-Metal ballad before disappearing into a swirling maze of throwaway riffs at constantly varying speeds. Similarly, “Exhausted” begins with a raw Punkish energy that is quickly dissolved by a blur of blastbeat autopilot, awoken only by an all-too brief burst of Agallochian reflection. Grigg’s Blackened scream is basic but effective, and while I certainly don’t mind the occasional clean-sung bits, they rarely have the impact they should. They’re in desperate need of refinement, then again that’s par for the course here. I’d like to hear the music reflect the abject misery poured onto Grigg’s lyric sheet more often than it does. Less is more, and more is less when it comes to Negativity worship. Woe has unlimited potential, but Withdrawal’s overall lack of cohesion makes for a frustrating, unbalanced listen. Honestly… what other rating could I possibly give this?

Hailing from the land of Ivan Drago, multi-instrumentalist/vocalist Katharos has been busier than a dyke in a hardware store lately. In addition to his work in/as Epitaph of Life, Hyperborean Frost, and Post Traumatic Syndrome, he’s also managed to put out five Emptiness Soul full-lengths since 2010. Three Days is my first time hearing any of his tireless efforts, and I must say it’s impressive Depressive. I was actually surprised to learn of this one-man band’s Russian dissent. Not to say that fertile frozen soil hasn’t produced quality SDBM in the past (All the Cold certainly have their moments), but much of Katharos’ Black methodology —vocals/vocal patterns, song arrangement, solid lo-fi production— reminds me of the Grecian formula. While most bands of this ilk take their vocal inspiration from Burzum, Popeye, or a wounded Beagle, the delivery of this low growl often harks back to the oldest coffin spirits of Rotting Christ and Varathron. Granted, the growls on Three Days are a little lower —think Saturnus circa “Starres,” Depresy, or maybe Crematory’s heaviest moments— and the music far more morose and melodic in a Blackened Doomy sense. What’s equally surprising is that this is, in fact, one dude. These epic tracks are crafted fluently in a multi-layered fashion, as if they were the result of a unit of suffering souls. The suicidal guitar melodies that blanket nearly every nook and cranny of these five songs are often all-pro enough to recall Gothic-era Paradise Lost, Brave Murder Day-era Katatonia, and Lifelover. The jury’s still out on whether this is a drum machine or not, but I suppose if I can’t tell, it’s a moot point. Of course, no SDBM record is complete without its obscure-band-covering-even-more-obscure-band closer. Luckily this rendition of “I’d Like to Love You” by Radogor —ahh, the classics— is no stylistic divergence from the album’s brilliantly downcast meat. Some songs do feel a bit longer and more repetitive than others —a few questionable structures found on “Third Day - Dying Soul” in particular— and one might be able to detect a guitar hiccup or two, but overall, Emptiness Soul’s heavier take on absolutely heartbroken Black Metal is refreshing and no chore to get lost in. Play this for your suicidal friend. If he dies, he dies.

For whatever reason, whenever the conversation about which Grindcore bands are still worth a piss arises, I always seem to forget about Spain’s Machetazo. They’ve been at it forever, I own many of their releases, they’ve done splits with the equally unforgettable Cianide and Ribspreader, oh… and some guy named Chris Reifert designed their logo. Yet, like some kind of Alzheimer’s patient, they somehow slip my mind completely. It could be an intentional subconscious move on my part. Maybe I do it so that every time I hear something new from the duo, I’ll have that, “HOLY FUCK! THESE GUYS ARE GOOD!” moment of surprise? It’s either that or decades of incarnated solvent abuse, but whatever the case, HOLY FUCK! THESE GUYS ARE GOOD! From the blast furnace and bulldozer bass of “Horca” to the Old School Death Metal with machinegun sneak attack on “Tetrico,” this listener is meathooked to his stereo with a jaw dropped to the floor like he didn’t see it coming. In all seriousness, I don’t remember Machetazo (Spanish for “machete”) being this heavy. I remember fast, furious, filthy, and fixated on Horror, but with Ruin they’ve achieved the kind of unbridled organic brutality you just don’t hear that often anymore. Dopi’s guttural grunt sounds particularly menacing, and while my Spanish is a little rusty, I’d say he’s using actual lyrics this time. And the riffs! God damn! Papi, I did not know you could do it like that! I don’t have enough space to highlight all of these monsters, but let’s just say the buzzsaw hooks on “Espectro,” “Fauces,” “Tinieblas/Ritual,” and “Desfigurado” made me want to dust off the old 6-string, tune it to Z-minor, and start violently molesting it again. Convincingly flaunting the gamut from Death to Grind to Crust to Thrash to Doom, all that keeps Ruin from perfection is a dreadfully uneventful 8-minute outro/instrumental, and a few… ahem… slightly borrowed arrangements (is “revientas” Spanish for “tormentor”?). Nevertheless, I don’t think I’ll be forgetting these dos hombres ever again.

Though this is titled II, it’s actually the debut album for Russia’s Hisstönend. The oddity of the title doesn’t end there, though. Get this: it’s their third release. Their first demo was entitled I, which is understandable. Then came a second release, simply entitled Demo. After that, we have this album, II. It’s strange, but I guess if you look at it from the standpoint of this being the band’s second release containing new and original material, it works. The two tracks on Demo were re-recorded songs from I. Musically, Hisstönend is very much in the minimalistic Black Metal style that was the hallmark of old Burzum, Xasthur or Judas Iscariot. It’s dark and dissonant, with lots of reverb on the guitars and on the vocals. The reverb-laced guitars give the music some atmosphere, which helps cover up the fact that Hisstönend is beating one or two riffs into the floor in each one of the six songs on this LP. This works for the most part, but the dissonance on “Whisper’s Cry” is just too harsh. That they play the same annoying riff for eight minutes doesn’t help either. The next song (“Dissonance Bird’s Song”) is almost as bad, having a riff that is only marginally less annoying than the one on “Whisper’s Cry.” The closer, “In the Depths of Forest Abyss” is an epic seventeen and a half minutes long, and it’s essentially a torture test to see how long you can stand to listen to the same riff. Luckily, that song doesn’t continue the trend that is started on “Whisper’s Cry” and has a riff that is less abrasive. Still, seventeen minutes is a long time to listen to one riff. If you’re into minimalism and dissonant Black Metal, Hisstönend will give you all that you can handle and more. Personally, I thought that this LP needed some variety in a bad way. After two songs that essentially had the same structure, I wanted something different. Even the inclusion of some keyboards or adding another layer to the basic one-riff minimalism would’ve spiced things up enough to keep me interested. If it hadn’t been for the abrasiveness of “Whisper’s Cry,” I would’ve tuned this band out after the third song. II started out promisingly but the overall sameness of the music kills this for me. Maybe next time…

Shit. Is it that time again already? Another predictable installment of bouncy Melodeath songs about Nordic mythology. Now before any of you Amon Amarth overnighters want to give me shit about giving them shit, just know I was rocking Sorrow Throughout the Nine Worlds while you were stealing money out of your babysitter’s purse to go buy a copy of Three Dollar Bill Ya’ll, so zip that fucking lip. Truth is, I remained happily on board this one trick pony ride up until 2008’s solid Twilight of the Thunder God. But on 2011’s Surtur Rising, I began to detect signs of a band as tired of writing the same song over and over again as I was of hearing it. I liked three cuts on that LP — two of which had the exact same hook, the other being a System of a Down cover. With Deceiver of the Gods, the results aren’t even that promising. At what point did Amon Amarth’s brand of Death Metal become backing music for step aerobics? This is Viking Death Metal Soul Train for fuck’s sake! You think I’m kidding? Cue opening title track: Danceable melodic riff, standard At the Gates beat, double-bass driven chorus with tremolo-picked melody, chug break, rinse and repeat. Next track: Iron Maiden lick, danceable melodic riff, double-bass driven chorus with tremolo-picked melody, chug break, fade out. Next track: Sped up “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming” beat, Iron Maiden lick, danceable melodic riff, shout-along chorus… Tired of this yet? Next track: Bouncy melodic chug, verses with same hook as danceable melodic chorus riff. Next: Bouncy melodies, double-bass driven chorus with tremolo-picked melody, upbeat danceable refrain. Next: Holy shit! A sample! Standard At the Gates beat with danceable melodic riff… I’ve already checked out mentally at this point and want to listen to something else. Next: “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming” beat not sped up this time, danceable chug with bouncy melodies, White Zombie’s “Thunder Kiss ‘65” riff just slightly altered… Odin help me! Next: “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming” beat, bouncy chug, danceable melodic riff, guest Butt Rock vocals from ex-Candlemass dude… That’s it! Done! No more Death Metal for lifelovers! If this isn’t a tired band going through the motions, I don’t know what it is. Johan Hegg’s roar still sounds great —as brutal and intelligible as they come— but he hasn’t said anything new in 17 years! I’m tired of fantasy lyrics and I’m tired of bullshit marketing gimmicks. There are 72 versions of this LP, ranging from 10-song CD to picture disc housed in gunnysack with toboggan, halyard, and mason jar of Ted Lundstrom’s baby teeth. One of the versions comes with a 4-song bonus EP of AA doing parodist renditions of other bands’ styles. That EP should’ve been called, WE’RE FUCKING BORED! These guys need a break, and they need to spend that break listening to Once Sent from the Golden Hall, Versus the World, and With Oden on Our Side on an endless loop.

Let’s face it, it’s all going to be Rock from here on out. Occult Rock, Post-Rock, Prog Rock, Stoner Rock… you name it. As long as it keeps selling, every third band the big-time Metal indies sign is going to be more Rock than Dwayne Johnson watching Def Leppard play “Rock Brigade,” “Rock of Ages,” “Let’s Get Rocked,” and “Rock! Rock! (Till You Drop)” at the Grand Canyon… on crack. However, occasionally they’re going to pick a winner or two. Maybe even resurrect a few careers. Until now, I had never heard 11-year veterans A.S.G. (The Amplification of Self-Gratification), and while I certainly didn’t have high hopes going in —they did a split with the unlistenable Karma to Burn in 2009— I’m having a hell of a time finding anything wrong with the Wilmington quartet’s first full-length in six years. Just in case that opening bit didn’t clear things up for you, this is nothing extremity-obsessed brutality-addicts need concern themselves with. Blood Drive isn’t really all that heavy… not even in a heavy-for-a-Rock-band sense. But I’ll be damned if it isn’t catchier than HPV at a Midwest whorehouse. I’m tempted to make a joke about their “Southern cookin’ bein’ tasty,” but I don’t want to imply that they’re one of those awful redneck acts with Down(s) Syndrome. They aren’t. Their sound is probably closer to something that would’ve been passed off as “Alternative” in the mid-’90s. I realize this is going to be a far-out reference for Metalheads, but does anyone remember Silverchair? Seriously. The best comparison I can offer is Silverchair with way bigger balls. (I can’t believe I just typed that.) If you aren’t 100% scared away by now, you might as well take the plunge. Trust me, it’s actually a great record. These guys know big riffs, big hooks, and even bigger choruses. They have a damn good singer and they don’t do filler. There’s also nothing to hate about the lyrics. They even wrote a song about Northwest Indiana for me (“Day’s Work”). Every track here has total stuck-in-your-head-the-next-day capability, and I honestly don’t know what else a good tune needs to be. For those about to Rock… we download you.

Not all Doom bands need to achieve an ominous, soul-crushing vibe. Not all Doom bands need to tug at the heartstrings with poignant melancholy and depressive themes. Not all Doom bands need to feature the world’s greatest vocalist, nor do they need to possess a wealth of stellar musicianship. But if they’re going to be at all effective in any way, a Doom band sure as shit needs at least one of the above going for them. This Southampton trio never has and still doesn’t. On full-length #3, Moss attempt to change things up a bit, but the end result is tragically the same. They’ve simply found a different path to mind-numbing boredom. Whereas in the past, these guys would throw together a couple 20-minute Sludge drones and call it an album, they want to be Electric Wizard and Warning this year. Unfortunately, they still don’t write riffs. I admit, the guitar sound Dominic Finbow achieves is monstrously heavy. That’s never been the problem with Moss. Kudos on his amp, strings, pickups, and distortion pedal selection skills. But as some drunk old whore once told me mid-blackout sex: “You’re not workin’ it!” The man plays his instrument like he’s learning chords for the first time, just trying to get a feel for how they sound. It’s all just single strums and incohesive bridges between them. Ring out for infinity and repeat. The band is still sleepwalking through slow-motion nothing, they’ve simply cleaned up the production a bit and altered the length of the torture segments. Speaking of torture, Olly Pearson tries to sing now. Trading in his mediocre Sludge scream of old to better suit the band’s Trad Doom shift, his newfound grating croon resembles a tone-deaf Ozzy at best. So… no riffs, no songs, weak singer, for about an hour. As I said, Moss haven’t really changed much. I’m sure they’ll still do well with people who only listen to music while getting/giving tattoos, but substance-seekers will be fast asleep halfway through “Dark Lady.” Horrible Night is a horrible album.