This is the debut album from Slovenia’s Veldes (not to be confused with the band Veles from Poland). I believe that this is also the only release by this relatively young one-man unit. For a first record, this is some really good stuff. Tilen Simon, the sole member of Veldes, has been in a few bands before this (metal-archives.com has him listed as being a member of Nephrolith under the name “Isvaroth”, as well as being a former member of Within Destruction and Wintersoul). One thing is clear: he does have a knack for writing dark and atmospheric Black Metal. To Drown in Bleeding Hope is full of brooding melodies and somber atmospheres. All of the songs have a melancholic feeling, and while occasionally it bleeds into depressive tones, I wouldn’t classify this as SDBM (Suicidal/Depressive Black Metal). I thought that it was a bit like combining the darkened atmosphere of Katatonia with the depressive minimalistic style of Burzum, but with more melody and ambience. It reminded me of being on the beach as a storm was coming in. The rain hadn’t started, but the atmosphere was charged and heavy. The wind was starting to howl and the sky was a brooding gray color. Some might find my description a bit melodramatic, but that’s how I felt when listening to this LP. One complaint I read about this album was that it was too short. I have to admit that I agreed with that sentiment, because while all of the songs are really good, the whole thing was over a lot sooner than I wanted it to be. These five tracks clock in at a total of 36 minutes. As far as I’m concerned, this could technically be considered an EP - though if we’re speaking of technicalities, Deicide albums were usually about this long too. I thought To Drown in Bleeding Hope was a very effective debut and I definitely want to hear more from this band.

What the fuck is this? That’s not a rhetorical question. Seriously… what the fuck is this? Rumor has it the black-magical Occult Rock phenomenon known as The Devil’s Blood has broken up for good. That’s right, it’s the time of no time evermore for these beloved retro fad trailblazers, and whatever this oddly-titled pile of slop is comprises their swansong. Clearly they were nowhere near finished with this material, as what I’m hearing is nothing more than meandering mindvomit. At no point during this 65 minutes of sonic purgatory is there anything even resembling a coherent song. I’m assuming the band were accustomed to demoing all pre-production, and then molding everything into the finished product —the word from Metal Blade is that III was originally intended for a winter release— but why they would actually want to put this out is puzzling to say the least. The nicest thing I can say about these seven “songs” is that F the Mouth of Satan’s voice doesn’t sound bad —a talent like hers is one in a million, and if this truly does mark the last we ever hear from her, she will be sorely missed— but there is no rhyme or reason to what she’s doing. No patterns whatsoever, as if she’s narrating the equally abstract guitar masturbation behind her in ad lib fashion. This feels like an impromptu jam session and that could very well be the case. There isn’t a hook, there isn’t a chorus, there isn’t any structure, just indiscernible blocks of aimless sound. It begs the question: did the band call it quits because they were out of ideas? I can’t feasibly imagine the daunting task of attempting to transform this garbage into gold. It’s Chappelle’s Show all over again. Nothing left in the tank for the third season (or album in this case). Nowhere to go after “the bitch wears underwear with dickholes in ‘em.” Or is this all a staged act? This album is so horribly bad it almost seems intentional. Are they so disgusted by the movement they’ve inspired, with all the overnight groups trying to copy them, that they threw the game on purpose? Whatever the case, The Devil’s Blood cannot go out like this. A good EP, two great LPs, and this turd can’t possibly be the end. I’ve seen a vision: there will be more Blood. Then again, “I ain’t no angel… I’m just a nigga that love blood-covered titties.”

Back when I was in High School, some two and a half decades ago, all of the skater kids were into Crossover, particularly bands like D.R.I. and Suicidal Tendencies. The first Suicidal album was fucking classic. It was all rage and aggression. It wasn’t technical. It wasn’t even very original. It was, however, totally fucking awesome. Every skater kid I knew had a Suicidal Tendencies sticker on their board and had scrawled the word “Suicidal” on the underside of the brim of their baseball caps. Fast forward to 2013. It’s been decades since I’ve cared about Suicidal Tendencies, mostly because their sound gradually changed from straight-out Punk/Thrash Crossover to incorporating other influences, mostly Funk and some Hip-Hop stuff too. Their rage diminished with each successive LP and after a while, I didn’t even bother with them anymore. Mike Muir soldiered on, though. All of the other members of the band have gone, but he’s still at it. As a vocalist, he gives an admirable performance. It’s been decades since he was an angry teenager that raged against the world. He can still push a song along with the sheer force of his personality and his own personal anger. It’s too bad that the rest of the band lacks his enthusiasm. This doesn’t exactly sound phoned in, but the band chugs along at a steady pace that seems at odds with what Mike wants to do. He wants to play angry Punk Rock like the first Suicidal album. The rest of the guys just aren’t that pissed off. This needed to be faster and more aggressive. It doesn’t work if Suicidal Tendencies isn’t angry at everything and everybody - and from the sound of things, Mike Muir is the only guy that’s pissed off at anything. I’ll give Mike credit for trying. His performance alone makes up the bulk of this rating. The band didn’t help him much, though. If the rest of the group can get a fire lit under their asses, Suicidal will definitely be back.

Sal Abruscato. Been a long time since I saw that name in print. Was it 1993? Damn, I’m getting old. Bloody Kisses. Great record. Timeless. I still listen to it semi-regularly 20 years later. That’s the last record I own with Sal on it. Johnny Kelly took over on drums after Sal left Type O Negative for Life of Agony in ‘94 or ‘95. I remember everyone loving Life of Agony back then. I didn’t. I thought they sucked ass. Some people say Type O wasn’t the same after Sal left. I’m not one of those people. I like everything except Dead Again. Kelly and Sal are essentially the same drummer. Kelly even drums for A Pale Horse Named Death when they play live. No one really notices. Kelly does that so Sal can sing and play guitar. Kelly does that for Glenn Danzig, too. Except Glenn doesn’t play guitar. Does he? I don’t really care. I don’t think Sal has ever been the frontman before A Pale Horse Named Death. Can’t remember what he did in Life of Agony. Life of Agony sucked ass. I’ve also never heard Sal’s other band, Toximia. I don’t think anyone has ever heard Toximia. No one really cares. I missed out on A Pale Horse Named Death’s 2011 debut LP, And Hell Will Follow Me. I work a lot. No computer. Did a lotta coke and bar-skank chasing 2 years ago. Not so much lately. Damn, I’m getting old. But I made it a point to check out Lay My Soul to Waste. People kept telling me how much A Pale Horse Named Death sounds like Type O. They kinda do. Same bass tone. Same airplane throttle pick-slides. Same drum sound/style. Duh! Musically it’s probably a little closer to Alice in Chains, though. Imagine AiC using Type O’s gear. Sal’s voice isn’t bad. Half-Jerry Cantrell, half-Scott Weiland. He’s no Pete Steele, but it’ll do. The first song after the intro is fucking awesome. “Shallow Grave.” Great bassline. Sorta “Black No. 1”-ish. Cool lyrics. Cool chorus. I sing the chorus at work sometimes. “…and I place a nameless stone…” Great hook. Pimp shit. No idea why I’m doing a stream-of-consciousness review. Sorry. I suck. So does the rest of this album. Seriously. It sucks ass. No other good songs. No other good choruses. Lyrics eventually get awful. I mean really awful. Like Hellyeah-meets-Buckcherry awful. Pete Steele could pull off occasionally goofy lyrics because he was Barry White in Thor’s body. Sal isn’t. Sal can’t. I miss Pete. So there you have it. Lay My Soul to Waste has one truly awesome song. You might even sing the chorus at work. Assuming you work… and aren’t afraid to sing poorly in public. The rest of the LP is pure filler, ranging from boring to AIDS. If you’re one of those people who only listens to the first song, this’ll be, like, your favorite record ever. I’m not one of those people.

Chris Romans, the sole member of The Last Surrealist, seems to be having an identity crisis. Based on what’s on this EP, he doesn’t know if he wants to play Black Metal, be the next Vangelis/Yanni or play Techno/House music. Void goes all over the place. It starts out as keyboard-heavy Black Metal, kind of in the vein of old Emperor/Dimmu Borgir, but then veers into this weird Vangelis/Yanni Ambient shit. After about five minutes of soothing soundscapes, we go back to the Black Metal stuff. A similar thing happens on the second track, though the keyboard interlude has more of a Techno/House feel because the drumming is faster. Void could have been a better EP had Chris trimmed out all of the Ambient/keyboard shit and just stayed with the Black Metal. The interludes in each song really didn’t go anywhere and all they did was stretch out a three minute song into a nine to thirteen minute track. I don’t have a problem with interludes or Ambient music on a Black Metal album. A lot of my favorites have them. The difference is that on those records, they belong. The Ambient/keyboard parts on Void are almost entirely unnecessary. Another gripe I had with the Ambient sections on this EP is that none of them were very dark. That’s why I’m comparing this to Yanni or Vangelis instead of something like Mortiis/Vond or Wongraven. Black Metal isn’t a genre of music that works well with that particular style of Ambient. If you’re going to do Ambient stuff, it needs to be darker sounding if it’s going to work. This isn’t dark or even weird. It’s just bland. Nothing on this EP is actually bad in terms of the individual parts. The sum of the parts, though, doesn’t create a whole that is greater. This could have been more refined. There’s potential here, but The Last Surrealist needs more focus before that potential is realized.

It’s a horrible life, so when your favorite singer of all time tosses a side project at you out of the blue, it’s a big deal. Let’s face it, Katatonia’s Jonas Renkse could fart in a jar and I’d buy it, proudly display it, and slap no less than a 9 on that bitch. And while Wisdom of Crowds isn’t at all what I was hoping for —I’ve always wanted Jonas to channel his inner Red House Painter, or perchance evoke Nick Drake’s ghost— it’s considerably more engaging than contained Swedish flatulence. The reason this self-titled debut often fails to live up to my reasonably high expectations is because it’s entirely the brainchild of The Pineapple Thief’s Bruce Soord. Certainly not a terrible musician by any stretch, yet anyone who’s heard the Progster’s main band knows he’s allergic to writing a memorable tune. The legendary Katatonia frontman is purely a hired gun in this case —not even contributing lyrically— although Soord has gone on record saying this material was “written with Jonas Renkse’s voice in mind.” So, at least we know the dude’s mind is occasionally in the right place. However, simplistic, laid back Electronica isn’t exactly the direction I would’ve gone in with this master of melancholy as my muse. Luckily for Soord, Renkse is a god among men, with a voice so powerful and compelling it could probably lend darkened emotional weight to “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and these 9 tracks do offer him a bit more to work with than that. The opening tandem of “Pleasure” and “Wisdom of Crowds” sets the tone with mellow urban beats not unlike Portishead or Depeche Mode. That’s right, folks. If you’re looking for anything even remotely extreme, you’ll be highly disappointed here. The guitars rarely get heavier than, say, Radiohead (back when Radiohead actually used guitars), but Jonas still manages to save the day with hypnotic verses that begin to creep their way into your memory banks by the third spin or so. “Frozen North” might be the closest this gets to Katatonia’s mastery of the loud-quiet-loud dynamic (funky breakdown notwithstanding), and the chorus of “Stacked Naked” slightly echoes that familiar genius as well (despite it being a Techno song in disguise). Often the stark homogeneity of these Dance/Pop structures is underwhelming to say the least (see “Radio Star,” “The Light,” “The Centre of Gravity,” and “Flows Through You”), and aside from flirting-with-Shoegaze ballad “Pretend,” there’s an alarming lack of overall sadness. Nevertheless, I’ve no doubt that Jonas made the most of what he was presented —some of these simpleton lyrics are sickeningly beneath him— and it should be obvious at this point that without his otherworldly vocal presence, this material would be utterly unessential.

Yay, though my love she doth come hither, my member no more swollen remains. For, O, I have heard her queefs! O, wretched queefs in the night as wounded as the Road Warrior’s cry. “A fart, indeed,” quoth I. “Nay, love gusts,” quoth she. In turmoil I tossed and turned for a fortnight. No sleep hath befallen me since. O, Cupid, you unfair scoundrel! My balls of blue, I prithee, erupt! Erupt as her dreaded bull queef doth erupt at my bedside, as I withdraw my youthful hose. O, ominous queef! It comes to kill my heart! ‘Tis natural I doth supposeth. The air, trapped as centuries of dust betwixt thy maiden’s love tunnel. O, foul air! Its abominable noise! ‘Tis the Devil himself mocking me from milady’s warm opening. Like the cardinal perched upon its branch mocketh my woe with song. This bitch queef, she doth removeth the mood from thine eyes. Forlorn and weary, I sought solace amidst the air of warm summer’s evening. The air! The accursed air! How it torments my every step with poisoned memory of thine vaginal quiver and burst! How like the rose petals I tremble amidst the storm. How like the sound of thunder her crotch doth make. Hath so many gentlemen taken abode in her stretched crevice? Hath this chariot no more tread upon its wheels? My dying bride. If e’er I loved her, all that love is gone. Come hither, queefless days and nights and months and years. All you shall bestow upon me now is the sweet silence, the absence of queef. But stay O spite! I pity the next lad to beckon the lioness’ roar of foul air. O, miserable gust of air! Wilt thou lay with her with earmuffs? Beware the style of dog, for it is when that furious noise of dying passion shall be at its loudest. Like trumpets upon castle walls declaring battle. A war of embarrassment no soldier’s might shall sustain. Methinks to beateth the bishop shall suffice. Come, peace of mind. Come, silence, thine angel. I will not touch a bitch. All the world’s a queef, and my dying bride holds no more beauty for thee. I do desire no more.

To say that Alpha Tiger vocalist Stephan Dietrich sounds like Geoff Tate (ex-Queensryche) would be an understatement. The two are almost identical to the point where if I told you that Beneath the Surface was an unreleased album from somewhere between The Warning and Rage for Order, you’d probably believe me - especially if I told you that the whole thing was digitally remastered. A hardcore fan would notice that Alpha Tiger isn’t as technical or as progressive as old Queensryche, but he’d be fooled for a minute. This isn’t to say that Alpha Tiger doesn’t have the skill to pull off something on the level of The Warning. These guys know how to play and they have the chops to pull off an old-school Heavy Metal album that rocks as hard as anything else from back in 1985. Their biggest hurdle is the similarity in sound and style to Geoff Tate in the vocal department. It makes you want to write this band off as a Queensryche clone and that really isn’t fair. This is some good old-fashioned Heavy Fucking Metal that isn’t too technical but still has enough fancy fret-work to remind you how prevalent talented guitar players were back in the day. I had to listen to this multiple times to get a firm grip on what was going on with this band and each time I listened to it, I had to remind myself that I wasn’t listening to old Queensryche. If you can get past the obvious comparisons, Beneath the Surface is a good album. Alpha Tiger needs to work on differentiating themselves from Queensryche (particularly now that they are both on Century Media) but other than that, they’re a solid act with a lot of potential.

Cambridge upstarts Uncle Acid & the Deadbeats have generated a remarkable buzz in underground circles by becoming the first band in the modern era to replicate the sound of ’70s Hard Rock. Okay… just in case you don’t pick up on sarcasm, sounding like the ’70s is hotter than a dozen diseased rats fucking in a wool sock on Arizona asphalt in August these days, so excuse me if I’m not blown away by the novelty of it all. To their credit, they do sound 100% authentic to the period, but as the 49th group to successfully accomplish this radically daring and boldly original feat this month, apparently it isn’t all that difficult to pull off. Pubic hair and butterfly collars are the new black. I get it. Fads come, fads go. Always have, always will. What interests me is good music, and while Mind Control is by no means a bad record, its filler beats the shit out of my attention span like Sonny wiping the street with Carlo’s ass after he hit Connie. (That’s my ’70s humor.) Musically speaking, the Deadbeats are appropriately named. This is total Psychedelia for Dummies, with the obligatory lifted Sabbath riffs and raw, live-sounding production. At their rowdiest, the band recalls fond memories of MC5, but too often they veer off into boring and/or corny territory. If there’s one unique/redeeming factor that keeps bringing me back for more, it’s Uncle Acid’s voice. Dude seriously sounds like John Lennon’s ghost! That familiar, nasally croon makes instant humming-the-next-day standouts out of headbobable opener “Mt. Abraxas,” hypnotic slow jam “Death Valley Blues,” and trippy closer “Devil’s Work,” but can’t save the majority of the LP from its Stoner-by-the-numbers doldrums. The vapid, upbeat repetition of “Mind Crawler” is a hippie’s wet dream come true, while the Far East meditation ritual (Yoko?) that is “Follow the Leader” back-to-back with the endless psyched-out sprawl of “Valley of the Dolls” is mind-numbing, and… remember that seated dance move Chevy Chase did in Paul Simon’s “Call Me Al” video? I can visualize him doing that to the main hook in “Poison Apple” all day long. Again, Unc’s pipes evoke a legendary resemblance that makes my inner Beatle queef. If only his backing band were playing something as instantly likable as “Rain” or “Across the Universe” to go with it. It will be interesting to see how many of these Occult Rock outfits manage to outlive the trend itself.