Suicide Silence - The Black Crown
If you take one statement away from this review, make it that not even Jonathan Davis can ruin a Suicide Silence song. Yes, the Korn ringleader makes a highly uncalled for guest vocal appearance on “Witness the Addiction,” but much like drunken sex with me, it’s over soon and forgettable. I didn’t even realize it was Davis at first and simply thought frontman Mitch Lucker lost a bet. My exact thought was, “god damn, that boy can’t sing!” Well, I was right, I just accused the wrong guy. This is only a slight blemish on an otherwise outstanding effort, so I thought it best to get it out of the way and focus on the positives, of which there are plenty. This is the third album from the West Coast Deathcore machine, and it might be their finest. If you thought there was nothing more you could possibly do with a breakdown, you were wrong (and most likely impotent). These boys take the exhausted tactic and breathe new death into it with impeccable song structure and a fucking unreal heaviness. Honestly, this Steve Evetts/Zeuss team-up might result in the best production ever achieved. If there’s a better one I’ve heard, it’s certainly hard to recall while you’re in the process of listening to this beast. Getting back to Lucker, his high-pitched scream/deep growl combo leans much more to the screaming side for this album, as the growls are unleashed with less frequency, but with perhaps even more gusto. As for his scream, let’s just say I don’t think he’ll be able to talk when he’s 40. It truly is vicious to say the least. Speaking of brutal pipes, check out the vocal cameo from Suffocation’s Frank Mullen on “Smashed.” There now, I’ve forgotten all about that gay Korn nonsense. The music is for the most part simplistic, barbaric, and rhythmically addictive. Not as much speed as prior albums, but twice the punch. It’s damn near impossible not to move your body to this in some way. Even the most Caucasian of us will be popping our fingers on the steering wheel to the double bass, snare hits and palm mutes. You’ll see many bitter critics (who can no longer produce an erection) downing this album. Google “hater.” Trust me, this album is much darker than Kevin Stewart-Panko. Deathcore still lives, bitches.
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