While I would consider myself a fan of Hypocrisy, Catch 22 taught me that not every LP is going to be awesome. Even with that, I still feel a bit disappointed by End of Disclosure. Under normal circumstances, I’d think this was a fucking deadly album. The riffing goes from dark and melodic to face-rippingly brutal and everywhere in between. Horgh’s drumming is precision as always, Peter Tagtgren’s vocals are as corrosive as ever, and Mikael Hedlund’s bass playing holds everything together like superglue. On top of that, you have the stellar sound that you always get when Peter is involved in the recording. Add to that some Wes Benscoter artwork for the cover and you have the makings of a classic Death Metal album. Why would I be disappointed? I should be having the time of my life and making my chiropractor rich from all the damage I’m doing to my neck. I’m disappointed because End of Disclosure is essentially A Taste of Extreme Divinity Part Two. If you listen to both of these records back to back, the only hint that they’re two separate albums is the fact that the title track (“End of Disclosure”) is the first song on the newer album. Even though four years separate them, they sound so similar, in terms of style and substance, that they could have both been recorded at the same time. I still like the music, but I wanted something to stick out as different. This is what Hypocrisy does best, but I’d hoped for a little something that differentiated this record from the last. I guess the best way to look at this is to think of End of Disclosure as the second disc in a double album. If you think of A Taste of Extreme Divinity and End of Disclosure as two separate and distinct albums, you see little to no progression in Hypocrisy’s sound. If you think of them as two halves of the same album, the fact that they sound so similar doesn’t register as much.

Every time Hypocrisy releases a new album, I can’t help but reflect on the truly remarkable run Peter Tagtgren & Co. have had. How many Death Metal bands can you name that began their career with four perfect records in five years? A couple decades later and I can still pretty much recite Penetralia, Osculum Obscenum, The Fourth Dimension, and Abducted from memory. That’s pretty fucking special. Of course, that isn’t to say the magic stopped there. It’s worth noting that 1997’s The Final Chapter was a nearly flawless affair as well. There’s only one real blemish on the Swedes’ resume, and we all know —including Tagtgren himself— which album I’m talking about. But as otherwise solid as the output has been from 1999’s self-titled LP through 2009’s A Taste of Extreme Divinity, these efforts haven’t had the same staying power. Want a test? How do any of the songs on Into the Abyss go? How about The Arrival? Virus? No peeking! Surely a scan of the tracklists will serve to remind us of the highlights, but straight from the memory banks, I’m drawing a blank. My point being, we haven’t been served anything as growl-in-the-shower good as “Left to Rot,” “Pleasure of Molestation,” “Apocalypse,” or “Roswell 47” in quite awhile. Unfortunately, End of Disclosure doesn’t buck this trend. It’s another good record from a great band, but it’s nothing you’re going to remember in 20 months, let alone 20 years. The opening title track is probably the strongest song here. A keyboard-laced Melodeath anthem with a catchy chorus that bears the band’s signature mid-paced atmospherics throughout. “Tales of Thy Spineless” is without question the fastest cut —although the song is slightly weakened by some awkward spoken bits— but Doomy closer “The Return” might be the heaviest. Meanwhile, mid-album skipper “44 Double Zero” is easily the weakest link, due in large part to some Painfully sub-par shrieking and an excessively repetitive chorus. Apart from these four tracks, nothing really stands out. It’s an enjoyable listen, but ultimately lacks the substance and memorability to dethrone whatever your favorite Hypocrisy moment might be. If I may offer a suggestion, maybe it’s time to start writing about something other than aliens? Never seen one. Don’t really give a fuck. Lots of other shit to talk about. Still, a relatively mediocre, possibly phoned-in album at this stage of the game isn’t enough to tarnish this hallowed legacy. Hypocrisy standards are awfully lofty to judge by… perhaps even for Hypocrisy.

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.

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.