The debut album from Whoretopsy (and also for Germany’s Torture Music Records) turns out to be a pretty damn good one. These Aussie sickos dish out a healthy serving of deliciously demented guttural Death Metal, most of which is unadulterated mid-paced slamfest. Occasionally the band will kick it into high gear with over-the-top blasting brutality, while other times they slow it down to a chug-induced crawl. Storma’s vocals are standard guttural filth —a deep growl that causes involuntary bowel failure coupled with a recurring high-pitch scream that admittedly could use a little work— but he gets the job done. The real treasure here is the album’s ultra-disturbing lyrics. When the first line is, “He sits fingering his foreskin,” —a song about dressing an elderly prostitute in your deceased grandmother’s clothing and making her soil herself before you bathe, fuck, and kill her in that order— you know it’s going to be a fun ride. Straight from the troubled mind to the page, other topics include fecal stench eroticism (“DPI”), dead rodent masturbation (“Voyeurism”), necrophiliac sex slaves (“Necrobordello”), and death by chronic diarrhea (“Potty Mouth”). Needless to say, They Did Unspeakable Things is full of potential catch phrases. With any luck, all the kids will be saying, “inhaling her rich musk,” “labia and anus flayed,” “her pelvic floor is weak,” and “lick the spunk off my guts, whore” by the end of the summer. Musically Whoretopsy won’t be accused of wheel reinvention anytime soon, but when your lyric sheet makes the Marquis de Sade’s diary look like a Ron Howard script, who the fuck cares? Now lick the spunk off my guts, whore!
Note: Distributed in the U.S. by the ultra-brutal folks at Sevared Records.

This goofy fucking name reminds me of teenage days when I would get high with friends and try to think of the most ridiculous band names possible. The ones I can still remember are Person Hurter (which a group of friends in Minneapolis would actually bring to reality years later), Browned Grief, and Place of Bad Thing Happening (whose classic Death, Do Bad Thing remains one of the best nonexistent albums of all time). But unlike the acid-washed-jean Thrash or ham-fisted Grindcore we’d often envision when coming up with joke names, this poorly-monikered band from Chicago’s seventh album reeks of a different kind of joke altogether. Bible of the Devil play total Butt Rock, and they’re unashamedly dead serious about it. They have the late ’70s/early ’80s Hard Rock act nailed to a tee. Recycled-then-neutered riffs from Kiss, Thin Lizzy, early Priest, and early Maiden, a vocalist that sounds like a significantly overweight Paul Stanley, and song titles like “Raw and Order” and “I Know What Is Right (In the Night).” The production even sounds antiquated. These guys went to great lengths to pay tribute to their idols, but the pessimist in me has to wonder why. I’m not going to pretend I don’t indulge in a little Butt Rock now and then, but I’ll dust off my Destroyer cassette when I want to hear Kiss. I’ll break out my Metal Health vinyl with the 75-cent price sticker still on it if I’m feeling really frisky, and the same goes for all the other bands these guys emulate. Classics are classics because they are classics. Elementary homage to said classics does not an overnight classic make, so who is this for? Old fogies don’t buy records from newer artists (especially ones named Bible of the Devil) and young people don’t know what records are. So, I guess that leaves lovers, relatives, and the local biker bar patrons? Perhaps they hope to open for Def Leppard at a county fair someday? Or maybe since Thugs & Fools feels so much like Spinal Tap —minus the (intentionally) comedic value— they’re really big in Japan?

This is the first and only release by Denmark’s Klor to date. That being said, I’m essentially going to treat this as a demo recording. Trust me, I’m being generous to most bands when I do this. I’m old and jaded. I say that a lot and I mean it. I come from an era when a band put out demo tape after demo tape over a period of years - sometimes even decades - before securing a record deal. Their first album, the culmination of years of hard labor and paying their dues, was usually the best music they ever recorded. Now, a band’s best album is usually their seventh or eighth release. That’s usually five or six albums after I’ve ceased to give a flying shit about them. Klor isn’t an exception to this rule. To say that this album is derivative and unoriginal is probably going to get me called “Captain Obvious” again, but it’s true. Klor isn’t bringing anything new or awesome to the table. This album sounds so much like old Burzum that Varg should be getting a royalty check. Dissonant, raw Black Metal is the order of the day. Droning, repetitive, riffing and Necro production are all on display in abundant quantities. There are some interesting parts here, but again, they’re things that Burzum already did and did better. While this may be technically well done, Klor is ultimately going to end up being another faceless band in a sea of bland, unoriginal Black Metal unless they can somehow find their own sound. My guess is that it will probably be long after I’ve stopped caring about them, but you never know. They can clone Burzum well enough, but so can a thousand other bands. There is some potential there but what they really need to do is develop their own sound.

Italy has never been much of a hotbed for brutal Death Metal, so back in 2003 when I first heard Disturbance, I was blown away and quick to anoint Hour of Penance the best Italian DM band of all time. 2005’s Pageantry for Martyrs was more of the same bulldozing guttural punishment, further cementing the band’s title. However, each release since then has been increasingly less heavy (both musically and vocally) and considerably less memorable, while becoming radically more technical and somehow even speedier. Fast-forward to Sedition, several lineup changes later, and the band is barely recognizable as the same monstrous beast they once were. All Death Metal bands that hope to achieve, let alone maintain, any level of success are going to have to sound like Nile or Behemoth. I accept that, but I don’t have to like it. It’s clear that Hour of Penance subscribe to that theory, as the only moments of Sedition that aren’t constant machine gun drumming and 999 notes per second are those Egyptian/Sumerian-accentuated melodies that Nile/Behemoth have driven into the ground for a decade or so. The songs occasionally feature those sweeping fills (have I mentioned Behemoth?) and the high-precision start/stop breakdowns that Krisiun have made so commonplace, but good luck telling any of them apart. Replacing departed vocalist Francesco Paoli who jumped ship for Fleshgod Apocalypse, new singer Paolo Pieri (Aborym, Malfeitor) does his best… you guessed it… Nergal impression. Phrasing his rapid-fire vocal vomit as best he can to the rapid-fire musical blur behind him, he isn’t the problem. The reason Sedition fails is because it contains no actual songs. For all its impressive technical prowess and inhuman speed, it doesn’t lend itself to one memorable second.

Not enough people are aware of how truly awesome Sweden’s In Mourning is. A Melodeath band that never sounds contrived, with one of the most underrated singers in the scene today. The non-poser elite amongst you will remember Tobias Netzell from his one-off gig as October Tide’s vocalist for their 2010 masterpiece, A Thin Shell (and he didn’t even get to show off his all-pro clean vocals on that one). These guys play melodic Death Metal the way you wish all bands would. The melody never robs the music of its strength, the strength never robs the melody of its misery, and they not only know when to plunge into Doomy depths but have also figured out how to inject small doses of Prog without turning everything into some Mike and the Mechanics nightmare. After two nearly flawless bodies of work (2008’s Shrouded Divine and 2010’s Monolith), the band does not disappoint on The Weight of Oceans. A nautically-themed concept album —boy, that sure has become a trendy move of late, but that’s about the meanest thing I have to say here— chock-full of moody epics that never abandon the listener’s interest. In Mourning commands any tempo and wield suicidal melody effortlessly at will. Listen to how seamlessly they transition the galloping chug of the verses to the dejected misery of the chorus on “A Vow to Conquer the Ocean.” Even when blasting at full speed, they never lose sight of their perfected majestic gloom (see the ending of “From a Tidal Sleep”), and when they feel like weaving a clean vocal ballad (“Celestial Tear”), the entrancing results are undeviating. At about 2:30 on “Convergence,” the band drop one of their patented Doom bombs from out of nowhere that leaves you completely mesmerized, only to navigate back to the original pace without missing a beat. I could go on and on, but just buy or steal this fucking thing already! Discover Sweden’s best kept secret for yourself.

I vomit my intestines out every time I see the word “supergroup” used to describe this puzzling assembly of irrelevant faggots. Now, please understand, I in no way ever intended to call legendary sticksman Vinny Appice (Black Sabbath, Dio, Heaven and Hell) a faggot, but being in a band with such third-tier, pillow-biting ass clowns makes you at least bi. For some reason he thought it would be a good idea to team up with Rex Brown, ex-“bassist” for the gayest group of posers in the history of Glam faggotry. He also convinced one of the guys from Ratt to quit his job at the Drive & Shine to play guitar, and recruited the vocalist from perennial Tough-Guy Metal failures Pissing Razors. What, the guys in Hanson were all busy sucking Fred Durst’s dick for blow? Bad moves all, Vin. That’s like getting Fred Savage to play Spartacus. What they create musically is often reminiscent of Alice in Chains… if Alice in Chains had been talentless hacks that wrote non-threatening Radio Rock by the numbers for trailer park forty-somethings. This type of PG-13 Metal will inevitably be a huge hit with the sub-35 IQ crowd, but anyone reading this website will want to avoid this like a random encounter with Mormons. Kill Devil Hill are about as Metal as a Richard Simmons workout video, however, if your idea of heavy lies somewhere between the Rocky IV soundtrack and the first Silverchair album, then this will sound great coming through the car speakers on the drive home from church. If it weren’t for the mostly undeserved fame of the parties involved, this is the type of band you’d see opening up for Crazy Town at bingo halls in the rural South.

The toughest part about returning to form is keeping it going (just ask My Dying Bride). You can turn in that supreme effort that reminds everyone of why they love you in the first place, but if the releases that follow can’t maintain the gusto, then you might as well have kept on making Jon Secada records. For me, Dark Tranquillity delivered their supreme effort with 2007’s Fiction. An album that not only re-lit the fire but could stand toe-to-toe with any of their ’90s classics, and has stood the test of time. 2010’s follow-up, We Are the Void, was by no means a bad album, it simply wasn’t quite as good, and the same can be said for this stopgap EP. If I had to take a guess, I’d say Zero Distance is probably one new song (most likely the title track) and some stowaways from the …Void sessions, possibly re-recorded. Worthless? No. Rather unnecessary? Unequivocally. The title track is a catchy tune with all the band’s signature trademarks present —soaring melodies aligned with mechanized chug, carried by overcast keyboards and the instantly recognizable bark of Mikael Stanne— but could have done just as well on the band’s next full-length. The remaining three songs and instrumental are phoned in by DT standards. They almost sound like the band going through some warmup exercises before the actual game. Practice? We talkin’ ‘bout practice? To be honest, Stanne’s voice is so good, the band’s melodic interplay so expertly honed, that even their filler tops mortal bands’ A-list material. But I expect more from them than this pointless tease. Not bad, but far from essential.

This band has been around since 1995, but I’ve always had trouble keeping up with them. Part of the reason was that their albums were so hard to find. Seven Bells is their latest release and is this one sick! Musically, this is similar to Celtic Frost (Monotheist) and Triptykon in style. I’m not sure how much influence Tom G. Warrior had on the sound of Seven Bells (he is listed as a co-producer), but his presence looms large. My guess is that Secrets of the Moon wanted to sound like this and decided that the best way to do it was to bring in the person who knew the Triptykon/Celtic Frost sound the best. Seven Bells is avant-garde, but not in the “we’re free from the bounds of Metal” kind of way. Seven Bells still has a solid Metal core and the experimentation and avant-garde elements are more to add atmosphere than anything else. If there is one flaw in this album, it is probably the fact that the Celtic Frost/Triptykon influence is a bit too apparent. From the first note, I could tell where these folks were going with their sound. That isn’t a serious flaw in my opinion. Very few bands can be both heavy as fuck and avant-garde at the same time, but Seven Bells is that from the beginning to the end. I love dark music and the more twisted and evil it is, the more I like it. If you’re like me, you’ll be listening to Seven Bells a lot.

In the womb
A sea of vomit
Nurturing the false prophet
His mouth of blasphemy
Spreading forth the creed of the infidels

His spit on the flaking emblem of Solomon
A schism of confusion, weaken the Trinity
Foresee the death of the holy alliance
The withering corpse of Christ

MOCK THE CROSS!

Thieving throughout the ages of man
He has come to claim the eternal prize
Antichrist of flesh and blood
Overseeing his domain with tender care

The foul taste of deceit lingering upon his lips
Fools entranced by divine intellect
Enslaved and scorned for eternity
The long awaited rise of the usurper
A new world order taking form

Hordes rejoiced in eternal solstice
Honoring the true kingdom
Possession of the gullible souls
Mass death in the name of dog

MOCK THE FUCKING CROSS!

God Forbid haven’t really rocked my world in a long time. As the ferocious Metalcore assault found on their first two albums gradually morphed more with each release towards a safer, less threatening, more marketable NWOAHM approach a la Lamb of God and Chimaira, my collection reveals that I stopped caring after 2004’s Gone Forever. With the departure of founding guitarist Dallas Coyle, will a revamped lineup serve to ignite the fires of old? Opener “Don’t Tell Me What to Dream” certainly hints at that possibility, with its crushing breakneck rhythms fueled by slick double bass and a massive production. But “My Rebirth” follows with everything I’ve come to dislike about the band. Lightweight melodic Thrash with a clean-sung chorus that screams PG-13 Action movie soundtrack. Equilibrium then plunges into formulaic boredom as heavy filler alternates with ballad filler, raping the good cop/bad cop blueprint on the altar of predictability, culminated by the PSA lyrics of the title track. Yes, freedom may not be free, but this record damn well ought to be. Nice Bon Jovi guitar solo on “Overcome” (and additional kudos for such an original song title). By the time Byron Davis repeatedly screams, “I can’t take no more” on “Cornered,” this listener is echoing that same sentiment. If there’s a declarative message intended to be conveyed on “This Is Who I Am” —which sounds like third rate, Jones-fronted Killswitch Engage— it’s received loud and clear. This band is done. Coffin nailed shut. Dallas knew it. A decent first song, but the head quickly goes from banging to shaking.

Apparently this Los Angeles quartet have been spreading the Sludge mustard for over two decades now. Somehow I’ve missed out on them altogether. I guess there’s just too many bands and not enough time, or it could be that every time I’ve come across them, I simply thought, “Why the fuck would you name your band 16?!” and moved on. Tough to say, I can barely remember last week. Deep Cuts from Dark Clouds might be as good a place to start as any, however. Musically speaking, I really like what the band does. Basic, no-frills, dropped-D fretboard abuse with a deathbed-sick bass tone. It’s very heavy yet contained, simplistic yet sharp, barbaric yet slick… it’s essentially a squatter who hasn’t showered in a year, but with a couple splashes of Preferred Stock. Seriously though, there is some major Helmet and Unsane worship taking place here, yet it retains a thick coating of Sludge-infested grime. It isn’t easy to achieve the proper balance of refreshing and filthy. It’s the vocals that lose me. Cris Jerue doesn’t have the worst snarl in the world, but we’re talking over-the-top one-dimensional. No range, no bombast, no emotion, no payoff. Jerue falls short of Lemmy and ends up squarely in post-relevant Max Cavalera territory. A dull scream that sterilizes the music’s energy to the point of television static. (Can TVs even get static anymore? Fuck.) Tunes that coast this effortlessly on awesome-autopilot need lungs with balls. Looks like I haven’t been missing out on too much after all, but maybe I’ll catch them on tour with 8, 17, 33, and 24.

This one-man Black Metal band hails from Turkey and this is Yayla’s second full-length album. Outside of the novelty of a Black Metal band from Turkey, this album is essentially Burzum worship. All of the songs are epic length (the shortest song on this album is slightly over seven-and-a-half minutes) and very minimalistic. If you remember what Hvis Lyset Tar Oss sounded like, you have a good idea what Sathimasal sounds like. This is another band that should be sending Varg a royalty check. I imagine that there are some folks out there who believe that sounding this way is how you keep it “true” (or is that “trve”?), but as far as I’m concerned, aping a legendary band (I’m not going to comment on Varg’s most recent material…) doesn’t make it so any of their mojo rubs off onto you. It just makes you a clone. Sathimasal isn’t anything you haven’t heard elsewhere. In fact, the droning, repetitive, aspect of it makes you tune it out. When you’re sitting there thinking, “Hey, maybe I should throw on some music,” and then you realize you’re actually listening to something already, it means the album isn’t engaging enough to hold your attention. Even for minimalistic, droning Black Metal, that’s a bad thing.

Let’s see… the band is called Sarcophagy, they’re on Sevared Records (final description totals for Sevared’s latest half-page ad: “brutal” - 9, “guttural” - 6, “ultra brutal” - 3, “tech” - 3, “slamming” - 1), and they feature members of Gorgasm and Human Filleted. For ten million (theoretical) dollars… can you guess what style of music this band plays? …no, I’m sorry, the answer is not Post-Bluegrass. Death Metal, we were looking for Death Metal. Thanks for playing. Make fun of Sevared all you want, but you don’t need to hire a P.I. to find out where their hearts lie. Who cares if all the album covers are made with MS Paint? Most of the stuff rules and Sarcophagy is no exception. I shouldn’t have to tell you this is brutal, but I’m going to. Fortunately it’s not the kind of brutal that turns into an unmemorable blur by the third track. These guys write great riffs and know how to structure them to keep it fresh. It’s not all blinding speed all the time. The majority of the album slams at mid-tempo, even slowing to a sick crawl at times (see “Grisly Homicidal Butchery”). There’s a definite East Coast flavor to the timing. Think Suffocation, Internal Bleeding, and Pyrexia with the occasional tech flair of Cannibal Corpse. Anthony Voight does a very Bentonesque job of syncing his growl patterns with the riffs, another way to keep things interesting. Noteworthy guest appearances include a classic, Cause of Death-style guitar solo from the legendary James Murphy on album closer “Crucifixion Masochism,” and Gorgasm’s Damian Leski lends a helping hand to his bandmates by adding an extra guttural voice and a sexy solo of his own to the clean guitar passage on “Cut to Pieces.” The Summoning is an all-pro affair, well-deserving of any DM fiend’s attention. Sure, you’ve heard this before. So what? I’ve also watched porn before. That’s not going to stop me from rubbing one out later tonight.

Where has this band been my whole life? Seattle’s Anhedonist present a debut full-length to be reckoned with. The juxtaposition of primal, filth-ridden brutality and cataclysmic, funereal dirges found on Netherwards perfectly defines all that is the Death/Doom genre. This album is strategically crafted —four songs, forty minutes, two Death Metal cuts, two Doom slabs— to leave the listener in a bloodied, broken, and numb state of post-apocalyptic languor. When the band rages on the Death Metal-dominant side of things (“Saturnine” and “Carne Liberatus”), it’s pure Old School bliss. Fans of Autopsy and Incantation take note, this guitar tone and vocal pitch are heavier than 666 tons of human detritus. However, it’s the Doomier tracks (“Estrangement” and “Inherent Opprobrium”) that truly steal the show. The band conjures a desolate atmosphere that swallows hope whole, as the smothering heaviness resonates in your constantly-decaying brain. The slow-motion bludgeonment often lends itself to intoxicating clean guitar passages that recall Disembowelment’s lone masterpiece. These are the moments when Netherwards is at its most haunting. One could argue that the material here is derivative, and that’s a difficult proposal to defend. It is entirely derivative… of shit that kicks ass!

Italians. Sure we’re great at food, tanning, cunnilingus, and Hammer Horror, but did you know we also excel at being miserable? Take a listen. For the last decade or so, the best music emanating from The Boot is of the sad ‘n’ pretty variety. Everyone should already be familiar with Novembre’s otherworldly-emotive Metal mastery, SDBM veterans Forgotten Tomb have picked up a few fans along the way, and the debut from Gothic Doom kings The Foreshadowing is as essential as they come. But not enough folks are aware of the country’s quality Post-Rock output. Do yourself a favor and track down some Room with a View, and if you have the stomach for heartbroken Emo, Klimt 1918 do it better than most. You can add Arctic Plateau to that resume to a certain extent. After a 3-year hiatus, this second outing from Gianluca Divirgilio shows promise, occasionally hinting at greatness. Heshers be warned, there is little Metal here, if any. This is pure Shoegaze, but it might be reflective and spacey enough to label Prog if that helps you sleep at night. Whatever you want to call it, these are dreamy, featherweight ballads that ache with melancholic melodies and lyrical introspection. If Divirgilio has anything going for him, it’s a smooth singing voice reminiscent at times of Novembre’s Carmelo Orlando. The problem is, for all of their somber, ethereal atmosphere, most of these songs don’t go anywhere. They float in and out, like a gentle breeze, without that big hook or enough pain to be remembered. However, Gianluca does get it right on the poignantly sorrowful title track —replete with Black Metal vocal-aided crescendo— and the beautifully morose “Loss and Love.” Two of the best songs of the year, unfortunately surrounded by enjoyable but ultimately forgettable filler.

I love Emmure and don’t care who knows it. It doesn’t matter how they or their Tween Wave fan base dress, these guys hit harder than Mike Tyson in his prime. It isn’t all studio magic either. I saw this band detonate a Mishawaka VFW hall in front of 100 kids like they were playing Wacken. So, since disliking a band for reasons outside of music and lyrics is poserific, you’ll have to forgive me for being looked down upon by the internet-dwelling virgins and bitter, dwindling fossils that comprise Metal’s supposed intellectual elite. My tirade aside, I’m a little shocked to see a new album so soon with the barely year-old Speaker of the Dead still a fixture in my rotation. What’s equally puzzling is that Slave to the Game is slightly different in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. From the swirling Bury Your Dead-style riffs that open “Protoman,” it’s immediately clear that there is no drastic style change. They still employ the breakdown like it never went out of style, and Frankie Palmeri still has the bestial roar from Hell to offset his psycho-babble, yet amidst the endless flow of bottom-heavy brute force and kamikaze pinch harmonics, there’s an undeniable autopilot vibe. I’m not saying it’s phoned in (although I haven’t ruled out it being rushed), but there’s a worrisome lack of standout moments. All Emmure albums are short, but this one’s over before you know it, with little if anything remembered. The exception being “Poltergeist.” A mid-album segue that is inexplicably a prayer set to background noise. With all their rampant profanity, misogyny, and overall Negativity-worship, I wouldn’t think these guys to be Jesus fags, but then again, today’s modern Christ-fuckers tend to make up the rules as they go, so you never know. I do hope it’s some kind of joke or obscure reference —nearly all the song titles are nods to Marvel Comics and video games— and not the dreaded closet exodus. Either way it’s the first track on an Emmure record I’ve had to skip over in a long time.

This album might have been good but for two things. The first is that the drums are far, far, too loud. They drown out the guitars to the point where all you hear is snare drum. The second thing that hinders this album is the fact that the songs, especially the first six tracks, are far too long. When you’re playing War Metal in the Blasphemy / Bestial Warlust style, the best formulation for a song is short and sweet. You hit fast and hard, musically speaking. An eight-minute War Metal song is four and a half minutes too fucking long. When you put the two downsides together, you get an album that drags on far longer than it should. The drumming is repetitive and since it drowns out the guitars most of the time, it makes the songs repetitive by default. The only time you can really hear the guitars clearly is when the drummer stops riding the snare for a moment, something that only happens for a short while in each song. This album doesn’t totally suck, but the downsides make it very hard to listen to all the way through. The strongest element on Ravage & Conquer is the guitar soloing. There are some really sick solos on this album. I mean, they just shred. I’m not a big fan of guitar solos (or guitar wankery in general) but the soloing here made me sit up and take notice. They don’t save the album but they do keep it from entering “absolute crap” territory. I can forgive the longer songs if they are interesting. I could see where they tried to inject some additional soloing and changes to spice things up, but the overly loud snare drum killed it. I don’t care how much your drummer whines about his shit getting buried. Metalheads like guitars. If we wanted to hear drumming, we’d listen to Rap. Turn the fucking snare down and turn up the guitars!

When Jack, a devoted worshipper of this band’s legendary first two albums (and who isn’t?), declined to review The Giant, I should have known to just never listen to it. I am saddened and infuriated and my ears cry out for justice. First off, I thought that Ahab was Funeral Doom, not slow-motion Prog Rock with occasionally raw vocals and guitar distortion. There are a few moments here that are passable —nothing fucking awesome, however, nor anywhere close to it— but even those are soon desecrated by ridiculous vocals I have heard described as both “Yoda” and “Kermit.” Suffice to say that they are Muppety. I have no idea why Ahab, or any other band, would want to juxtapose the heavy shit on this album with all the fruity Prog flaccidity. No, wait, I do have an idea. A horrible idea that I hope is wrong, but am sure is not. I think that these now-pussified nautical numb-Krauts would like to abandon the heaviness altogether, and go totally Prog, likely while eating diet pudding and discussing how to incorporate Sex and the City plotlines into their lyrics, but were afraid to change that much at once. So, this album isn’t just a disastrous, mind-numbing waste of time, it’s also completely chickenshit.

This Italian gloom mob completely blew me away with their masterful debut LP, Days of Nothing. In fact, only their countrymates in Novembre can lay claim to releasing a better full-length in 2007. Three years later the follow up came in the form of Oionos, an album so disappointing by comparison that I still mockingly refer to it as Onions. It had its moments, but “sophomore slump” remains a fair assessment. That said, Second World looks poised to be the make-or-break moment for this band (cue bassline from “Under Pressure”). Well, I’m tickled as shit to report that, for the most part, Second World is a glorious rebound. The Foreshadowing’s otherworldly magic lies somewhere between the romanticized solace of The Angel and the Dark River and the frail beauty of Discouraged Ones. Rarefied air to say the least. The keyboards occasionally add a modernized Gothic tint and Jonah Padella is a bonafide down-tempo drum god, but it’s the deep croon of Marco Benevento —try to imagine Rick Astley but dark, brooding, and Roman… and heterosexual— that always steals the show. The band revels in absolute perfection throughout the first six tracks of Second World. From the mournful waves of “Havoc” to the Katatonic hypnosis of “Ground Zero,” Benevento tattoos each chorus so deep into your brain that you’ll be singing them the second you wake up in the morning. It’s that good! But don’t take my word for it. Dan Swano himself called this album one of the best he’s ever mixed, and that’s saying a little something. If there’s anything to complain about, it’s that the record doesn’t finish very well. The last four songs fizzle in unmemorable fashion, but let’s not pretend all of our favorite vinyls always get flipped over. Essential nevertheless.

Crust Punk doesn’t have a lot of moving parts. It’s fully charged and ready to go, but almost confined by its straightforwardness and simplicity. To separate yourself from the pack in this genre, you’ve got to have the right sound, the right chemistry, the right energy in the studio and on stage, and no lack of passion. That’s why you only need a couple hands… maybe one foot… to count the really good Crust bands. Sweden’s Wolfbrigade are near the top of that short list. Formerly known as Wolfpack, classics like A New Dawn Fades, Lycanthro Punk, and Allday Hell are standard-bearers in this league. Sadly, it seemed as though after they changed their name and released the solid Progression/Regression, they fell off the face of the Earth. While their last two records sounded a bit phoned in, there seems to be a healthy buzz surrounding Damned, their Southern Lord debut. And justifiably so, as it’s immediately clear from the moment you press play that Wolfbrigade is back in full force and possibly better than ever. Not so much a return to form as it is a return to focus, Damned sizzles with urgency and tension. What’s always made them stand out for me is their inclination towards misery and despair, and there’s no shortage of that here. With a thick coating of bleak hopelessness, these guys get more mileage out of the D-beat than most. There’s something magical about sadness at full speed. When Motorhead and Negativity are worshipped simultaneously, everybody wins. Every song rages with primal ferocity, every song is complimented by grim melodic genius, every song is a winner. Unafraid to switch up the tempo throughout, even when the band really slow it down on “Ride the Steel,” they’re unstoppable. Quite frankly, this is the band’s most accomplished, most diverse, most dynamic, and (likely no coincidence) most Metallic work to date. Flawless!