Hateful Agony - Through the Memories of a Painful Past
I’ve been hating life + afraid to die since the 3rd Grade. Needless to say, I’m always on the lookout for quality Suicidal Depressive Black Metal. Truth is, it’s a rarity. There isn’t a ton of middle ground when it comes to this genre. Albums usually get thrown into one of two piles: “fucking awesome” or “fucking joke.” Lately it seems that latter pile is stacking up much higher and faster than the former. Half of these acts don’t even have vocalists, and the other half… well, you wish they didn’t. (I can’t remember the group, but a recent demo submission actually featured a singer whose Black Metal pseudonym was Stinky.) So, when a band like Hateful Agony comes along that, ironically, does tread the middle ground somewhat, it’s hard not to grade on a curve. This corpse-painted trio brings absolutely nothing new to the table —I honestly have a tough time even telling their songs apart— but they play the style the right way. That means sadness, sadness, misery, sadness, hate, sadness, and then more sadness… the way of all life and the way of all music that doesn’t suck balls. They have the melancholic sensibility of an Indie Rock band filtered through the bitterness and rage of Black Metal at a Doomy pace, all tied together with a filthy lo-fi bow. They do have their fair share of boring instrumentals as well —four to be exact; an intro, intermission, outro, and Xasthur cover— but when those bleak melodies break through the wall of crispy Necro and Lord Doryan Wolf’s acidic Burzumesque rasp blankets every last vestige of hope, it’s an undeniably enjoyable spin. I’m perfectly okay with them sounding like every other SDBM band as long as it’s every other SDBM band in the aforementioned “fucking awesome” pile. Perhaps the only thing truly unique about Hateful Agony is their locale. Sao Paulo, Brazil? Really? Suicidally depressed Brazilians? Well, I’ve always been a firm believer that anyone can be miserable anywhere, and this is unequivocal proof. Even in the land of sandy beaches, bronzed bodies, and waxed pussies there are hooded miscreants hoping that big statue of Jesus falls on the country’s best soccer player right before the World Cup. Todos saudam a nossa Negatividade Deusa!
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