While some hated this band’s debut album, Spell Eater, I found that LP to be an interesting listen. Jill Janus has a very dynamic voice and I thought that Spell Eater showcased her range and her power. Starbound Beast, the new album by Huntress, has taken longer to grow on me. Compared to their debut, this is far less Thrash oriented. The songs are slower and more Hard Rock/Traditional Heavy Metal sounding. This isn’t a bad thing. If done correctly, you can still produce a hard-hitting, enjoyable album that kicks enough ass to appeal to the general Metal fan. By and large, Huntress is able to deliver the goods. Some of the tracks are a bit hokey, though. The hokiest is one that you really can’t expect greatness from. The lyrics for this song were written by Lemmy from Motorhead and it’s called “I Want to Fuck You to Death.” I’m sure Lemmy wanted to fuck Jill Janus to death. I know a lot of guys who’d tap that woman’s ass. I know a lot of women who would, too. Still, you just can’t take a song like that seriously. The whole thing may have been Lemmy’s way of asking her out on a date. Even though the song was delivered with conviction, the absurdity of it really kills it for me. Regardless of the occasionally goofy lyrics, I thought that the bulk of Starbound Beast was pretty good. I did think that Jill was holding back, though. One of the things that made me like Spell Eater as much as I did was the fact that Jill blasted you in the face with both barrels. Starbound Beast is more restrained. Jill does cut loose every now and then but I wanted more of the powerhouse delivery that she displayed at Tidal Wave 2012 when I saw Huntress headline the first day of the festival. I don’t mind the more Hard Rock/Heavy Metal direction the band is going with their music, but what makes Huntress great is Jill’s delivery and conviction. When she’s in top form, Huntress kills. I wanted to hear more of that. I didn’t get as much of it as I wanted, but I’m still hopeful that the next album will see Jill Janus bringing her double-barreled shotgun to the party and blasting me in the face with both barrels again.

As a 20-year scene veteran, I’d like to think I’m a Death Metal know-it-all. Sure, I love all types of music. Some of them <gasp!> not even remotely Metal at all. But the Metal of Death is still #1. Tops on a very short list of reasons to live. It spoke —some might even say it growled— to me the loudest as an introverted, ostracized teen, and it still speaks to me the loudest as an introverted, ostracized adult. However, not even the most knowledgeable Death Metal lifers among us can lay claim to truly knowing it all. It just isn’t possible with this elusive, underground-dwelling genre, where the bands outnumber the fans 666:1. Just when I think I’ve heard it all —or more accurately everything worth hearing— a band like Norway’s Blood Red Throne crawls out of the woodwork. Of course I’ve heard of them —seen their name in magazines and catalogs, etc.— but they’ve regrettably snuck under my radar until now, with album #7 and year of existence #15. Listening to this self-titled beast of an album, I’m downright embarrassed that I’ve never given them a chance before. Especially considering the all-star pedigree involved. Not only was this project formed by two touring members of Satyricon circa ‘98 —Dod (guitarist and sole remaining original member) and Tchort (also of Green Carnation, Carpathian Forest, and Emperor fame)— but other past and current members include major players from the likes of Gehenna, In the Woods, Spawn of Possession, Deeds of Flesh, Aeon, and even Enslaved. I’m not gonna jerk your chain, Blood Red Throne isn’t the end-all be-all of Extreme Metal as we know it. You won’t be getting those same chills you got from Scream Bloody Gore or Left Hand Path. But it is a solid, no-bullshit Death Metal LP, and if you haven’t noticed, those are becoming harder and harder to come by these days. Obviously I can’t speak for past efforts, but these 9 tracks exude an undeniable Sinister influence, and that’s a surefire way for any band to worm their way into my cold, black heart. An impressive blend of speed, brutality, groove, technicality, and catchiness without any one thing being overdone. There’s a pit riff for the ages directly after the sample on “Hymn of the Asylum,” while “In Hell I Roam” boasts a tremolo-picked blast furnace that echoes the greats. If there’s one thing I could do without, it’s the occasional high-pitched scream. I realize it’s a Nordic staple, but this one’s well below average and can induce a cringe on an otherwise decent cut. I believe some serious backtracking on my part is in order. No doubt by the time I finish, I’ll have discovered a few more unseen diamonds in the rough. You just can’t win.

Of the hallowed Teutonische Thrash triumvirate, it can be argued that Sodom has aged the most gracefully, if only by a slim margin. This dawned on me while listening to album #14 in its entirety for the umpteenth time, yet I wasn’t even able to make it all the way through the last Kreator or Destruction records. I was born just a smidge too late to be an original Sodomaniac, but by the early ’90s I had done my homework, catching up on the band via timeless classics like Obsessed by Cruelty, Persecution Mania, and my all-time favorite, the Expurse of Sodomy EP (“Break their crust…”). Unfortunately I can’t confess to paying much attention to the band’s post-Agent Orange output. Sorry, grandpa, too much shit, not enough time. Now, I’m not going to throw you a line of bullshit about Epitome of Torture being a return to that 1984-1987 form —that just wouldn’t, and shouldn’t, be possible for any Thrash band 32 years into their career— but I’ll be damned if this album doesn’t absolutely sizzle with pedal-to-the-Metal virility and rage. There are basically two types of song here: hard-charging Speed Metal joints and stomping mid-paced Rockers. Newer drummer Makka “keep on rocking in the” Freiwald (once a live skinsman for Rotting Christ) may be somewhat responsible for how relatively vibrant these ten tracks sound, but at the end of the day it’s these choruses (and pre-choruses) that become glued to the brain. Album standouts “My Final Bullet,” “S.O.D.O.M.” (you know a band’s getting a little long in the tooth when they have to spell their name out mid-chorus so they don’t forget), “Stigmatized” (slight “Bombenhagel” feel), and “Into the Skies of War” are instant anthems thanks to the trusty snarl of Tom Angelripper. In his old age, the Aryan Araya’s voice is starting to slightly resemble the late, great Sam Kinison at times. Not a bad thing, just sort of comical. (Speaking of comical, what graphic design terrorist Photoshopped this ridiculously bad cover art?) But no matter how hard it is to keep a straight face through with that in mind, Epitome of Torture is a damn fine effort and a worthwhile addition to their legacy. Not sure how much post-review replay value this has in store for yours truly, but I do know this is as energized and vital as Sodom has sounded in ages.

Technically speaking, is it still a supergroup if you don’t like any of the participants’ main bands? Make no mistake, I do worship at the altar of Agalloch, but in this case, the “featuring members of Agalloch” selling point is a touch misleading. It’s just ex-Ludicra/ex-Fuckboyz drummer-for-hire Aesop Dekker. That’d be like saying, “featuring members of Metallica” in reference to Robert Trujillo. The rest of the Vhol lineup consists of Mike Scheidt from Yob on vocals (who gives a Scheidt?) with Hammers of Misfortune/Amber Asylum couple John Cobbett and Sigrid Shele on guitar and bass respectively (yawn). I should warn all hipster fuckstains in advance: what you’re about to read may disturb you. I don’t abide by the bizarre unwritten law of the Metal press that all Profound Lore releases must receive unconditional love and unanimous approval regardless of quality. I do like the label. Anytime your roster includes the likes of Pallbearer, Evoken, and Bell Witch just to name a few, you certainly deserve respect. Just not blind —or more accurately, deaf— respect. I’ve no doubt that Vhol will top every major fagazine’s year-end list, so let me have the honor of being the first to tell you — this is garbage. Boring. Anti-memorable. Slop. Pure shit. I’d be willing to wager this album was completely improvised beginning-to-end. Dekker gets his blastbeat practice in while we’re treated to 46 minutes of throwaway Black Metal riffs with occasional buoyant nods to Punk and traditional Heavy Metal. I’d rather hear Volbeat than a Vhol beat. Again, it all feels ad libbed, right down to Scheidt’s dreadfully sub-par Ted Culto impression. I can’t even tell if it’s him or the cunt doing the Ass Metal backing wails. Don’t care. I’m equally not sure which specific Tom & Jerry cartoons Cobbett lifted these melodies from because I don’t have that kind of free time anymore. Rest assured… this is happy… this is fun. A lighthearted jam session poorly captured on tape, nothing more. But the back of the frayed-corner-after-you-reach-for-it-twice digipak does say Profound Lore, so expect nothing less than the highest praise from individuals who smile every minute they’re alive (even in their sleep). People who only listen to music on their computers and genuinely believe other people care who their top Last.fm artists are. People who only use music as background ambiance for cheery social interaction. Fuck the ways of happy. No true and passionate lover of music has any need for this noise soup in their lives. Quite possibly the worst record of 2013. Supergroup? More like super poop.

Who amongst you is underground and undead enough to remember Ohio’s sicktacular Regurgitation? 1999’s Tales of Necrophilia LP? Ablated 002, bitch. 1996’s Conceived Through Vomit demo? I got that shit on cassette (the best a man can get). But enough bragging. If you aren’t familiar, get that ass to downloading immediately. On the topic of the present, we have Necrotic Disgorgement, a band that features the guitar team of Ben Deskins (rhythm) and Tony Tipton (lead), with Jason Trecazzi on drums — all of ex-Regurgitation fame (Trecazzi also flipping the sticks for the absolutely slamtastic Cranial Osteotomy). This is only their second full-length since forming in 2003 —one has to assume that’s due in large part to three-fifths of this lineup (rounded out by Phil Good on bass and newcummer Jimmy Javins on vocals) splitting time in Heinous Killings— but when it comes to goregantuan ultra-brutal Death Metal of the most perverse order, quality always trumps quantity. And quality pretty much sums up the Necrotic Disgorgement attack. You should have an inkling of what you’re getting with song titles like “Pincushion Pussy,” “Conceived for Incest,” “Crack Whore Compost,” “Anal Trauma,” and “Icepick Ear Sodomy.” It’s blast-happy, it’s pit-friendly, and above all, more brutal than Pain Olympics footage (Google at your own risk). Those put off by vocals of the pig squeal variety will be pleased to know that Javins features more of an intelligible, Mullenesque roar, and has a PhD in vocal patternization from Benton University. An equally engaging factor, as anyone who recalls the aforementioned Regurgitation days can attest to, is that Deskins and Tipton make actual riffs priority number one. Never content to grind away on a shapeless, low-end rumble, the duo unleash a bevy of palm-muted and tremolo-picked gems, not to mention big league solos and the occasional Thrash lick. Documentaries of Dementia might not be as instantly memorable and infectiously hook-laden as, say, Trecazzi’s other band, but it’s more than solid enough to suck in just about any UBDM fiend and not let go. If this doesn’t have you double-bass tapping your feet and breaking out that air BC Rich, you might be dead. (And if you also happen to be a crack whore near the Columbus area, that does not bode well for your corpse.)

A note to all aspiring Funeral Doom bands: covering Skepticism will get you noticed. At the very least it’ll make me want to hear you. When it comes to the art of Funeral Doom, Skepticism —alongside fellow Finnish masters Shape of Despair— is as good as it gets, and I can’t say I would’ve had the same level of interest in Theomorphic Defectiveness had the album-closing cover of “March October” not caught my eye. First and foremost, it lets us know we’re most likely dealing with a Funeral Doom band —so many different kinds of Doom out there, don’t wanna accidentally get some of that happy faggot Doom— and furthermore, it’s assurance that the band in question is aware of the good shit — no seeds and stems, just the sticky icky. Unfortunately in the case of Russia’s Abstract Spirit, it’s arguably false advertising. Yes, this trio most certainly plays Funeral Doom, and without question the haunting, desolate presence of Skepticism’s influence permeates beyond the cover alone, but as I’ve said many times before, this is the toughest style of extreme music to pull off. It’s difficult for a musician to play at a pace slower than his/her own pulse —which is almost always elevated by the act of performing— and to do it as consistently and excessively as the genre demands requires a level of men-who-stare-at-goats concentration. Abstract Spirit has the hard part down. Their tempo is morbidly ominous yet graceful, the feeling of hovering through the ether like an apparition successfully achieved. But within that weighty framework, often their songs desperately lack anything to latch onto. There’s virtually zero memorability factor, and with such lengthy, lugubrious tracks, that usually equals sleep. To his credit, A.K. iEzor’s deep, guttural growl is all-pro slo-mo throughout, but minus the Doomgasm reached from 7:47-8:42 on the 13-minute opening title track and the glacial string-bending that opens the aptly titled “Under Narcoleptic Delusions,” there isn’t much going on musically that begs for repeated listens. Luckily that does not hold true for the aforementioned cover. Just a flawlessly executed, spot-on rendition of Skepticism’s classic second cut from the Alloy record. So brilliantly reenacted, it makes the lagging doldrums of their original material all the more puzzling. Clearly they have the tools and a wealth of potential far from fully realized. With Theomorphic Defectiveness, Abstract Spirit have designed their own measuring stick, marking where they are now and where they might someday be. As always, time will tell.

I usually try to avoid reviewing reissues the same way I attempt to dodge other unnecessary unpleasantries, such as doctor visits, court dates, vegetables, child support payments, or social interaction with human beings. But when it comes to this masterful 1994 debut from Greece’s Septicflesh (or Septic Flesh as they were known in simpler times), I feel an exception must be made. First and foremost, it’s a great record well deserving of a proper reissue. Secondly, it was one of about four Metal releases in the ’90s that didn’t make it into the pages of Metal Curse. Ahh… the print era… Now we just have to track down reissues of those other three. While this album’s production hasn’t quite stood the test of time (although 19 years ago this was considered fairly decent), the atmospheric Death Metal on display unequivocally has. Despite being ahead of their time, the heaviest hitters on the legendary Holy Records roster seem underrated in hindsight. Revisiting Mystic Places of Dawn, it’s clear that the band’s multi-layered, gloomy approach to Death Metal would serve as the inspiration for like-minded purveyors of aural awesomeness Depresy and Garden of Shadows —two underrated bands in their own right— among others. On this classic debut full-length —and on worthy successor Esoptron while we’re at it— these Greeks achieved a near-perfect balance of heaviness, aggression, dreary ambiance, and experimental quirks… something that can’t exactly be said for more recent efforts. Even amidst 666 tempo changes per song, these nine tracks maintained a cohesive focus. In retrospect, it’s amazing how these moody musical shifts had the ability to transform the consistently gruff barbed-wire roar of Spiros from a deadly blunt force weapon into a graceful thing of passionate beauty. Few bands can lay claim to a debut that is equal parts intense, solemn, and adventurous! 1991’s impossible-to-find Temple of the Lost Race EP is included as a bonus here, which is a nice gesture for the sad sack like myself who has never even seen a real copy. These four cuts showcase a younger, faster, harder, less polished Septicflesh, who even at this most formative of stages still had the tools, the talent, and the vision. Unfortunately they hadn’t quite figured out how to make it all memorable yet. Something they would significantly iron out three years later.

“Old School Swedish Death Metal. For fans of Grave, Entombed, Dismember, and Unleashed.” Gee… thanks, Metal Blade. Is a review even necessary at this point? Sure, I should probably give you the skinny on whether Entrails’ third full-length is worth your time or not, but based on that description, you most likely already know or don’t care. Well, shame on you if it’s the latter. Yes, the NWOOSSDM thing has been done to (raging) death in recent years, but technically this Linneryd quartet aren’t new kids on the chopping block. They began in 1990, right when the movement’s first wave was about to catch absolute fire, but never released so much as a demo due to results the band deemed unsatisfactory. Since resurfacing in 2009, original guitarist Jimmy Lundqvist has been a man on a Metal mission. With a little help from his friends in Birdflesh —bassist/vocalist Jocke Svensson and drummer Adde Mitroulis (also of General Surgery) round out the new lineup nicely— he has made up for lost time with two demos, two full-lengths, a split with Ominous Crucifix, and now this, the band’s Metal Blade debut. That’s all well and fine, but do Lundqvist’s unearthed red dreams have anything new to offer the overcrowded Swedeath landscape two decades later? No… not really. But Raging Death does kick just enough ass to avoid the scrap heap. First off, it sounds terrific. I guess with Dan Swano handling the mix, that’s no surprise. Secondly, the band isn’t just another Entombed clone — at least not to the degree their logo would indicate. Of course there’s no shortage of Sunlit HM-2 homage, and the final 1:45 of album closer “The Cemetary Horrors” is plagiarism to the point of comedy, but many a melodic chorus feels more like Desultory than Dismember. There’s also a few nods to the Gothenburg scene and plenty of Crustastic D-beatdowns thrown in for good measure, but for the LP’s greatest treasure, look no further than “Death League.” Just an all-out Death Metal anthem for the ages, featuring guest growls from Swano, Rogga Johansson, Jorgen Sandstrom, and Kam Lee. Seriously, if that doesn’t give you a boner, you’re reading the wrong site. If ever one track was worth the price of admission alone, “Death League” is it. Nothing compensates for a lack of originality like a little star power. I don’t know if Entrails has what it takes to stand the test of time, but they’re sure as shit going to light my next mixtape the fuck up.

I fucking love Deftones, and I don’t care what any denim-vested hesher who hasn’t been laid since the Carter administration thinks of that. On the flipside of that coin, I’m not much of an Isis fan, and I give less than a shit what any gauged-earlobe hipster with a Japanese dragon tattooed on his ass thinks of that. Given that contrast, how will this 6-song self-titled debut from three core members of Isis featuring Deftones’ Chino Moreno on vocals fare? Two minutes and change into hearing album opener “Future Warrior” for the first time, my soul queefed. This is absolutely beautiful music. Moreno’s iconic voice is softer than baby legs, and he’s in top form here. Modern-day Alt Rock’s answer to Morrissey and Sade does not disappoint once again. His smooth, soaring lines carry these lengthy, emotive cuts to a plane of wistful yet passionate reflection where first-listen catharsis is reached with gentle ease. When it comes to intoxicating deliveries, grace, poise, and the ability to make the most broken of hearts beat a step faster, Moreno isn’t that far away from Jonas Renkse in terms of effectiveness and talent. Musically speaking, what Jeff Caxide, Aaron Harris, and Bryant C. Meyer are doing with Palms is a thousand times more engaging than the slow-heavy-and-long for the sake of slow-heavy-and-long doldrums of any Isis record I’ve fought to stay awake through. Abandoning the mundane trappings of Sludge in favor of breathtaking Post-Rock, one calming ethereal passage shimmers after another, as mesmerizing waves of masterful melodicraft repeatedly send suspended shivers down this crooked spine. This is closer to The Cure than it is to Neurosis, and speaking of Renkse, the next-level melancholy found on “Patagonia” is so deep I have to wonder if there’s a reason to that rhyme. Occasionally the trio will drift and wander aimlessly through the musical desert like U2 on Quaaludes and peyote just long enough to keep this from total perfection, but Moreno’s almost always there to rein the proceedings back into gleaming focus. Simply put, Palms is a mellow masterpiece that’s damn near impossible not to get lost in, and as hit-or-miss as endeavors of this nature tend to be, it’s a triumph of epic proportions.