A Moment Of Clarity with Death (To All) at The Worcester Palladium

Over a decade after Chuck Schuldiner’s untimely demise by cancer of the brainstem following a long and expensive medical battle, fans worldwide were certainly pleased to hear that past members of the highly influential group would be banding together to reactivate the long dead crew in select cities. The 2012 tour saw some enormous fiscal controversy, what with money being mismanaged, the scope of the tour being underestimated, and of course, the charity aspect making any and all profit almost non-existent to begin with. Not to mention the lack of Chuck Schuldiner himself due to being inhumed, and the last-minute nature of adding Exhumed’s Matt Harvey in place of Obscura’s Stephen Kummerer. It was destined to fail from the beginning, and reviving Death was a huge mistake.

Or was it?

Drama aside, Death (To All) lives once more, and now that those in charge (presumably) have all of their armoured ducks in a row this time ’round, the tour will no longer be a metaphorical game of Duck Duck Goose. Featuring the line-up of Death’s seminal and prog-leaning Human, along with guitarist/vocalist of Cynic’s current line-up, Max Phelps (which totals up to the men you see onstage being Cynic give or take a guy), there’s no doubting the technical ability of this crew. As if to say anything of the previous year’s staff, consisting of the same members sans Max, with “mean” Gene Hoglan, Scott Clendenin, and Charles Elliot of Abysmal Dawn to name most of them. This is beginning to sound like the history of a football team, so let’s move on to the actual show.

Sadly I missed my buds in Forest Of Remorse and all their technical/silly slamming brutality, but I was informed that it was a fun set and that there was a fair amount of gettin’ down. Nerds beware. Aversed, I’ll assume they also put on a great show, if not much less breakdowny and more on the side of the proggy jams that Death fans tend to gravitate toward. Black Trip and Necronomichrist were also sadly missed.

Since I wasn’t a fan of the other bands that played up until Exhumed, I’m gonna go ahead and skip to Exhumed because I don’t care.

Carcass worshippers and damn proud, California’s Exhumed have been delivering (WARNING: gory Metal-as-fuck hyperbole ahead) frenetic skullblasting intestine-shredding chainsaw-wielding sickness since 1990 in the form of buzzing guitars, shredding solos, and of course, drums that couldn’t settle down for the life of them. Of course, it takes a crowd that’s willing to tear it up to complete the equation of an Exhumed set, and unfortunately the mosh action was startlingly lacklustre, with sporadic shoving action, underfed circlepits, and just plain ol’ not enough brutality of the right sort. Oh, but the band was on point, nailing every bone-crunching chord, every artillery-round blast, every gurgle and growl, all in place. The people just seemed lazy or unwilling to serve up the blood and guts befitting such music. I did get hit on, though, and that’ll be the highlight of the night.

Death (To All), the main course of tonight’s metal-as-fuck feast, had a lot of expectations to live up to. Being one of the most well-known death metal bands of all time will do that.

With the setlist consisting of all of Human aside from “See Through Dreams” and “Vacant Planets”, and the rest being from Leprosy, Spiritual Healing, and Scream Bloody Gore, naturally there was a lot left out. Compared to last year’s setlist, it’s almost disappointing that they didn’t even touch on greats like The Philosopher, Scavenger Of Human Sorrow, or Crystal Mountain. There just simply wasn’t enough time. Though I do suspect that had they gone without the Chuck Schuldiner memorial video and played a few songs in its stead, perhaps the entirety of Death’s meisterwerke as it stands in the genre would have been better represented.

Underfed set time notwithstanding, the band crushed live. The guitar was even heavier and crunchier than on the original recordings, the drumming was spot-on, the vocals were highly reminiscent of Spiritual Healing/Leprosy era Chuck, which is (in my humble opinion) where he was most distinctive and vicious. The bass provided by Steve DiGiorgio didn’t get to shine as much due to the band not touching on the proggier material of albums like Individual Thought Patterns and The Sound Of Perseverance, but why complain? He’s Steve goddamn DiGiorgio and he’s good at what he does, so shut up. For your money’s worth, seeing these OGs perform their hearts out and be stoked on their olden days is still an experience worth having. Watching Paul Masvidal run about in unbounded excitement and not even miss a note with his trademark headless Steinberger all the while is quite fun, and of course, watching someone clearly nervous about filling in Chuck’s place and still nailing their performance in front of thousands of watchful and judgmental eyes is worth at least half the admission price alone.

All in all, Death may not be truly alive, but it is an autojector, an experiment in the revival of once dormant musical energy that seemed destined to remain in the confines of bedrooms and wherever a cover happened to be played. Going back to the source was a great success; let’s see how long they can keep this going before everyone gets sick of it.

New England Metalfest Day 3: Dies Irae

Day three put the HARD in New England Metal & Hardcore festival this year. This was the No Sissies Allowed day. Observe.

Opening ceremonies were conducted by Seattle’s To The Wind, and they put on a good show, however unremarkable. Nothing bad to say, though I haven’t any accolades to shower upon them.  After them, a whole big space of my doing nothing but bothering people and flexing my superb awkward swagger until The Greenery, a Long Beach skate crew whose singer has a bone to pick with the concept of stages, because separating yourself from the crowd is not punk.

Too fast, too furious, and it’ll make you wanna act a fool. The Greenery play a mix of Thrash, Hardcore, and straight up balls-out Punk that has the speed of Cerebral Ballzy, the rousing hardness of Rotting Out, and the obsession with boarding that connects the two. I certainly wouldn’t mind catching them again. One fun thing I learned from this set was that I may or may not have found the singer’s Motorhead hat, which apparently went missing and was so painful of a loss that he dedicated a song to it. I invoke finder’s keepers law and am justified in my acquiring of this killer headgear.

I heard a bit of racket being made downstairs by Australia’s Beyond The Shore, and went down to see what was up. Apparently the once passable I Killed The Prom Queen impersonators have taken a turn for the worse and don’t even bother trying to sound remotely interesting. That and a crowd of 20 people not throwing down to the chugs was enough to make you flaccid. Taking the stage after them were Waking The Dead, a passable Crossover Thrash act, but nothing that made me rethink all of my once held notions of how it should sound.

Heading back upstairs, I intended to see what all the fuss surrounding Warhound was about.

Seamlessly melding Hip-Hop and Hardcore can be done, and has been done. Just look to bands like Candiria for an example of how to do it tastefully and with a steaze indefatigable. Warhound on the other hand, while not necessarily bad at what they do, take the more thuggish extreme of hip-hop, and not exactly the “Wu-Tang ain’t nuttin’ ta fuck wit” type, either. It’s certainly heavy and has that bounce, but the attitude is more funny than anything, even though you can tell they come from the mean streets of Chi-town and are unironic in what they’re talking about. For fans of Deez Nuts?

Following the hardest ever were Turnstile, who are also respectably hard, despite their name being a random object. I guess they like trains. They sure know how to get a crowd going, and even got some glorious pile-on action, which is a sign that the kids dig it.

Following that was Thick As Blood. By now you’ve probably realised I spent the majority of my day upstairs. It was more fun there, is all.

Florida’s not a happy place. Just look at all the Death Metal bands that have come from there, as well as these hatemongers that got some fools crowdkilling early on. Music is passion, it’s true. I got a fist to the eye just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I gotta say, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. That set the tone for a fun set, oddly enough, even if Turnstile had a bigger draw, resulting in an oddly vacant floor in comparison. I got down.

Local boys Sworn In came on next and played a lot of heavy stuff, which makes sense since they have yet to write anything that isn’t.

My seeing these guys was a long time coming, and I’m glad I finally got to. In a more packed setting, I imagine it would be far more satisfying, though their heaviness that errs on the side of a djent feel and the eternal wellsprings of anger held by their vocalist is massive enough when there’s room to practice your spinkicks.

I decided against my better instincts to go peek at The Plot In You(terus). Generic trash, throw it away. I stand a greater chance of getting a nosebleed drinking a glass of water at home than I do standing in a The Plot In You pit. Luckily Remembering Never, though I’d not previously heard them, obliterated the thoughts of that horrible experience from my mind with their OG Metalcore swag.

There’s my dad in the Daniel Bryant shirt, by the way, up front for one of the bands that I’m gonna guess invented the sentence-long title craze alongside bands like Killswitch Engage, Converge, and Death By Stereo. Having gone on a hiatus some years back, apparently it’s quite exciting that they’re doing things once more, and having seen them in action, I can say for sure that they’re a much needed breath of fresh air in a world where Metalcore means anyone suffering through a break-up. Clean sections sparingly used between punishing breakdowns, circle-pit parts that didn’t sound forced, and of course, the abundance of quotable lines that give the audience cause to shout along with all of their might. It’s inspiring, I say. For fans of Ligeia who are sad that they’re dead and drunk.

Speaking of hiatuses (hiatii?) Trapped Under Ice made the announcement that they would be going on one in August of this year. I, not being a fan, am not taking the news too hard, but their legions of loyal pit warriors made this one count, with mic-rushes galore and rugged pit antics for those truly unafraid to emerged bruised in the name of Hardcore. TUI til they die. I’m sure they’ll be missed, but they’ll be back, and probably to more intense crowds than before. Whether or not they’re Metallica fans is a question we’ll have to wait to see answered definitively at another time.

Thus concludes the upstairs portion of this programme.

After getting a little poster signed by Suicidal Tendencies (fo’ free, bless their hearts), it was time to witness some endless circles made by our favourite speed metal drunks in D.R.I. 

How much can one really say about D.R.I. that doesn’t just boil down to “Ahh it was fast and people were running around!”? Because that’s basically what it is: an explosion of pure Crossover enjoyment that not even some fool wearing stripes and acting a fool (the wrong way, mind you) can ruin. They didn’t invent the circlepit (I think), nor did they invent the skanking run (or did they?), but since both are so synonymous with them, it was of course what one may expect to be the main flavour on this mosh smorgasbord.

New York’s finest in Sick Of It All are the ones that I personally attribute a lot of the modern day tuff guy hardcore to, but by Jove they’re fantastic.

Old boy Lou hasn’t aged a day in their 28 years as a band, it’s incredible. Looking and sounding just as fresh as on record, the band delivered prime cuts like “Just Look Around” and “Step Down” like it wasn’t no thang. Sick Of It All was the rallying cry for all of the dads in the building, as the bald and aged among us were out in full force, circling as though this was their final day on Earth, and throwing down harder than some of the kids upstairs. It’s a sight to see, the geezers out to play. Sick Of It All? Nah, I could go for a couple more songs, please. It was all over too soon, but luckily the cycos in Suicidal Tendencies were up next for all of us who have a bone to pick with your polite society.

Suicidal Tendencies are the reason why Punks and Metalheads are on friendly(-ish) terms today, so thank them whenever you see a guy in a Slayer shirt and a guy in a cut up Circle Jerks shirt in the same pit not punching one another. They and D.R.I. essentially paved the way for Crossover and Metallic Hardcore of all types, so it’s a pretty big deal that they are once again sharing the stage. Mike Muir has aged physically, but his voice and attitude towards life have thankfully remained ever fresh and relevant since their self-titled LP released in ’83. Still cyco after all these years, anthems like “How Will I Laugh Tomorrow If I Can’t Even Smile Today?”, “Possessed To Skate”, “I Saw Your Mommy”, “You Can’t Bring Me Down”, and of course, the almighty “Institutionalized” still have the same punch that they did when they were first penned. The new line-up hasn’t changed a thing as far as their energy goes, as they’re just as vital as the group of youngsters that initially formed the band. The mini-speeches Mike made between songs were at once inspirational and wide-eyed and had a touch of the lunacy that attempting to play by everyone else’s rules brings on a free-thinking mind. I don’t exaggerate when I say I could listen to Mike Muir spoken word on how to subvert societal norms with the same interest as I would Henry Rollins describe his interactions with strangers. Fuck with life regularly.

In all, New England Metal & Hardcore Festival XV was a massive success. Hundreds, thousands even, from all over the world, including a crew that came all the way from Japan just to see Terror, all united in their love of heavy music. It’s a wonderful thing, and I wish all shows were this grand, if not quite as expensive. But fuck it, I got in for free because I’m cool. Cheers, fuckers.

New England Metalfest Day 2: Electric Boogaloo

Due to the sheer volume of bands and out of consideration for the eyes and souls of any readers, I won’t get into great detail with any band that kinda sounded like all of the other bands or that I don’t particularly like. Or in some cases, missed either because I chose to because I’m boss status or various circumstances. Also, hello again.

This show got started with Saving Grace, who are a Christian (obv.) band from Australia that play some form of hardcore that is heavy. You can get down to it with relative ease. Following them were yet another Christian crew, albeit a little heavier, both sound and weightwise, under the moniker Those Who Fear. They provided a little anti-sermon, which is much appreciated so you know you’re not being judged. Totality was neatly sandwiched between the two, but their unremarkable sound and downright silly pit action that resembled enthused leprechauns circling a pot o’ gold bore their almost being left out of this review entirely. Sorry, guys.

A time skip and a jump later, Fit For An Autopsy came out and encouraged the pitters and sinners to act a fool.

One of the few true Deathcore bands currently existing as a legitimate combination of blasting Death Metal fury and Hardcore pit ignorance, FFAA have a lot to be proud of. For starters, they got to play the pre-party with Revocation, The Acacia Strain, and Abiotic to name a select few goodies. They can also be proud of the fact that they’ve got fans in both the Metal and Hardcore crowd going hard in the pit for ‘em as though the differences are non-existent. The set was spot-on, with cuts like The Jackyl and The Conqueror, and even a few new songs, ringing true and clear despite Nate Johnson’s apparent throat problems following an incident where he nearly swallowed his own beard. Hence, babyface Nate.

Following these beasts were East Beast, an up and coming crew of aggressors from (wild wild) Western Mass.

Heavy, pissed off, but maintaining a sense of fun, I hope East Beast goes places with their churning breakdowns and rousing two-step sections. The next band I witnessed, Glass Cloud, is well on their way to success, despite their part in the controversial “djent” movement.

Boasting the guitar talents of Tony Danza Tapdance Extravaganza’s (RIP) own Josh Travis, they’ve already got one musician that’ll provide the heaviness and dexterity that’s needed for a band of their type. Luckily the rest of the band is able to pick up their own slack, with tight drumming, tastefully layered melodies, and delectable clean vocals to go with the standard shouts and growls. I dug it. What I didn’t dig was the sound mix during  Týr, and unfortunately these otherwise fierce Viking warriors were sounding rather dull and neutered. I couldn’t stand to hear it for more than a minute and ran outside to socialise.

Freeing us from the hordes of noisy Norsemen were The Contortionist, bereft of their usual singer, Jonathan Carpenter (not to be confused with the director of The Thing, of course), but it mattered not, sincethe  equally talented singer of Last Chance To Reason, Michael Lessard, stepped up to fill in while the band searches for a new singer, presumably American Idol style.

Replacing Jon Carpenter, even temporarily, is a job that would make anyone short of BtBaM’s Tommy Rogers nervous. Despite the pressure to stay on key during the melodic sections of Geocentric Confusion and Holomovement, he cut through them with the same ease as he would during Programmed For Battle or The Linear. Spot on, you couldn’t tell the difference, aside from his apparent nervousness on such a large stage. The band as a whole remained professional and broke it down with the heaviness we know and love (that breakdown in Oscillator gets more massive every time I hear it live), and regaled us with tales of space and the inner workings of the mind. Marvelous, would repeat.

Sadly not all progressive/technical Metalcore acts cannot be as rousing of the spirit as The Contortionist, as their peers Within The Ruins so gladly demonstrated with their show of brute chugs and going-nowhere-fast noodles.

They weedled too much on Creature, they attempted to even it out on Invade by adding in some random chugs, and Elite is just much more of the same palaver. It’s not impressive by any means, but it isn’t terrible, so I’ll just stick them with a solid “meh”.

After The Burial are a band that has drawn many comparisons to the WtR crew, but I feel that their style and panache entitles them to the chugging and weedling that other bands simply cannot master.

I eagerly anticipate their new album to be released on Sumerian Records later this year. The band simply cannot fail as a cohesive unit, blending polyrhythms with a mind-bending ease, crafting dizzying melodies and mosh parts with equal verisimilitude, and of course, lyrical splendour that lends to great quotability. From the brutality of “Berzerker” to the more heartfelt hitters “Your Troubles Will Cease And Fortune Will Smile Upon You”, they get the crowd moving in a way that WtR can’t; with passion.

Born Of Osiris were the final flagbearers of prog-leaning Metalcore for the night, playing a set almost exclusively made of songs from their most recent outing, The Discovery, the only exceptions being oldies (but goodies) “Rosecrance” and “Empires Erased”.

Some sound difficulties made the second one difficult to recognise until some way through, but hey, it’s a killer tune. The fact that The Discovery is just about a perfect album saved the set from being wearisome, as playing only material from one release is often a bad move for any band to make, but hey, like I said, it’s perfection in sound.

He digs it.

Ensiferum took the stage next, but not feeling in a very folky mood, I made my way upstairs to let the Vikings return to the battlefield once more, and check out Alpha & Omega. One particularly awesome thing I saw was FitFo’s guitarist Pat Sheridan tearing it up in the pit like a monster programmed to kill mercilessly. Other than that, not much to say. Following them were everyone’s favourite tuff guy crew to love/hate, the infamous Terror.

Boasting equal parts old-school Thrash circle-pit riffs and breakdowns to get stangry to in a flat-brim sports cap, Terror have been damn near unstoppable since their inception in 2002. Sure, Scott Vogel may have (unnecessary) beef with The Ghost Inside, and may have dissed Refused on their reunion tour needlessly, but there’s no doubting their power to get a crowd going. The stage was as full of rabid fans that were at once tearing at one another and sharing the space, shouting every word without fail, and also knocking out fools that weren’t with the program. The staff’s completely helpless when a band with Terror’s draw plays upstairs, and that’s the Lord’s truth.

While I did not physically spectate The Dillinger Esc. Plan and instead mucked about upstairs, what I heard was their normal grinding technical Calculatorcore fury, punctuated by mellow moments that provide eyes for an otherwise blind hurricane of extreme music outpouring.

Opeth played a really long set of cool songs with growls this time. 2 and a half hours. I have no words for it, except damn that shit was dope.

Fat Hayley Williams showed my dad her vagina, and it was grody.

New England Metalfest Day 1: The Bad Beginning

A massive, godlike undertaking. A plethora of musical talents and a variety of styles meshing to coalesce in a way that is spiritually and mentally gratifying upon experiencing. But enough about my own one-man project. This is New England Metal And Hardcore Festival, Fif’-fuckin’-teenth installment, and still boasting bands heavier than your mother and more talented than your girlfriend when she displays her ability to play multiple skin-flutes. It’s the big-time, and probably the only reason why you’d be plraising the lord almighty that you live in Worcester. Let us proceed into the part where I describe how bands sound and whether or not I like them.

I’ll begin this by saying fuck you to that bastard that ran around my homies’ hood of Watertown/Belmont and caused that kerfuffle that tied up all of polite society for a whole day while the piggies played an old fashioned game of Cops And Terrorists and eventually cleaned up the mess right fast. So, hopping aboard the metaphorical A-Train with Beefy Keefy and his pals, we made it in Worcester at around 4:30-5:00, just in time to catch a few minutes of  Massachusetts’ own premier Metalcore act Shadows Fall on the downstairs level, and the likewise Northeast born Death Before Dishonor. In short, Shadows Fall didn’t play any songs I was interested in, and I’m not a fan of DB4D, so neither held much for me to be excited about.

However, what there was to be excited about were the party and zombie obsessed Speed Metal Punx Drunks in Municipal Waste. They fucked it up, oh yes.

My apologies to mister Wentworth for yoinking his picture. RttP is being a bastard. Anyhow, yes, Municipal Waste did fuck up, but they also fucked the crowd up. The drummer may have had a brew(ski) or two to many, and was noticeably off in his bass drum work, and they had a good setlist of ragers like “Sadistic Magician”, “Terror Shark”, and of course, “Born To Party”, but it felt like they could have included a few more of their best goodies like “Bangover” and “Septic Detonation”. Perhaps I’m just too kvlt for my own good?

I didn’t run in too many circles because I had to save my energy and hatred for Trap Them, one of the more hateful metalcore acts that’s allowed to carry the tag without the stank that scene kids gave it some years ago.

Looks kinda like a picture I could take with my phone. As a matter of fact, it probably was? Fuck, I’m sad.

But I sure as hell wasn’t sad in that pit, oh no. I came in swinging, gettin’ down to the funky rhythms of “The Facts”, “Insomniawesome”, and “Iconflict”, to name a few righteous tunes full of the buzzsaw guitars, pissed-at-you howls, cannonading drums, and rumbling Earthquake bass that makes Trap Them sound dirtier than a raven just come out of a tar pit. Much less squawking, and more flailing fists. Get punched, die lonely.

With no time left to while away after whiling away the time that it took for Every Time I Die to do what they do, I went downstairs to see Hatebreed teach us about perseverance, brotherhood, loyalty, and being a good dad.

Hatebreed is a band that I cannot bring myself to enjoy fully, yet it’s just so hard to hate them. They write some catchy songs (though sadly they didn’t play “Another Day, Another Vendetta” or “Killing An Addict”), they’ve got crunchy breakdowns, and of course, they’re hilarious. Funniest moments of their set included:

1) Jasta requests a circlepit during a breakdown. Is he bonkered?

2) A couple of fat dudes bromancing hard and seemingly so afraid to get in the real pit that they created their own on the stairs where they just kinda bumped into one another and hugged.

3) Everything else.

After that silliness, we got into some more with Anthrax, featuring Joey Belladonna and His Remarkably Well Preserved Voice.

And another yoink. I really should start writing these sooner.

So, Anthrax, one of the big 4, finally crossed off my list. I doubt I’ll see Metallica for a good price and I could give less than a fuck about Megadeth because they don’t make my dick hard, so maybe someday, Slayer. Joey’s shout-out to the Boston Police Department for catching those terrorist muggles notwithstanding (you should know by now how much I don’t like those guys), there’s nothing bad to be said about their performance. I’ll just enjoy the fact that I saw Among The Living played in its entirety, AND snagged a free Motörhead hat from the little shelf that I had to crowdsurf to get to. I’m sure I exposed my fat ass to dozens of people in the process but give I a fuck not, because I have a free Motörhead hat and it’s worth the shame of not being sexy. Fuck it, I do what I like, and I like what I do. And what I do is run in circles when Anthrax plays “I’m The Man” and “Anti-Social”, and collect them bills. This has gotten ridiculous. Shut it down.

Stay tuned for day two. I already wrote it but chronologically I’ll pretend I didn’t.

Technique is everything. Iron Lung @ The Cambridge Elk’s Lodge

Two guys make more noise than your band of 3+ people. You should be ashamed, world. Indeed, Iron Lung’s an efficient powerhouse bent on ruining your preconceived ideas of melody and music in general, but they’re not doing it alone. Observe.

Local noisemakers The Combat Zone opened, and they bring an old school 80s HC vibe that’s certainly not offensive to the ear. While they’re certainly not bringing much new to the table, you’re not wishing they would wrap it up after a song or two. If they’re playing a show, you can mosh, it’s fine. For y’all that dig Bloodkrow Butcher.

Following were our favourite metal maniaxxx in Ramming Speed, who fully intend to rock your socks, if you wear those things.

To say that Ramming Speed get amped about their live show would be the understatement of the year. These guys bounce about like loose atomic particles, and when they collide, they blow up and stuff. But instead of creating black holes or destroying all nearby, they only make more energy to feed all of the other particles involved in the quantum orgy of circlepittery. It’s pretty cool, guy. I’ve already written about Ramming Speed several times so I can’t really say much different from usual, except that vocalist Pete introduced a song by saying it’s about getting your “face blown off by a nuclear warfare(sic)”. I think he was wastoid on the celluloid.

Next up, and considerably less silly, was Dreamdecay (I think), and they’re fucken weird. Imagine Hardcore made for people who like World/New Age, and you’ll be close.

Loud, rumbling drones, Indie-leanings that hearken to Sonic Youth (or something else. I’m ignorant, see), and generally not what you’d expect a punk band to sound like, but at the same time you can get down in the pit during crucial moments. It’s unique, and being signed to Iron Lung’s own eponymous label, there is certainly good to be found in fitful nocturnal travel.

Mysterious hometown heroes Mind Eraser don’t play very often, but when they do, you better duck.

Alternating between snail’s bace breakdowns awash in syrupy distortion and blasting grind, Mind Eraser take the two extremes of powerviolence and seamlessly meld them into a pot labelled “Yer done”.  It’s not to be fucked with in the pit, because you will catch a chop to the collarbone. I can’t say much about their musical output since I haven’t listened to much, but Cave is a sweet slab of violence and hatred for your fellow human, so go check that at the very least. For people that wish that Weekend Nachos listened to more Eyehategod.

Iron Lung, known equally for their surgically executed musical output and drummer/vocalist Jensen Ward’s sardonic yet lighthearted quips between songs, up and murdered all that came before with a steaze that you just can’t fuck with.

Armed with the heavier-than-thou atmospheres that make Swans what they are, in addition to the unforgiving powerviolence sounds championed by Infest and Capitalist Casualties, Iron Lung’s sound is the best of both worlds. If you’re in it for blasturbation, plenty you will get. If you’re into the slow, doomy breakdowns, you’ll be much appeased. If you’re an ignant tuff guy, you may want to leave, because they have brains.

That’s not to say, of course, that you can’t mosh it up, because by all means, tear it up if you’re not a total pussy. The pit churned, yes, and I’m pretty sure one odd character of a woman that probably followed Iron Lung out of Seattle was not missing that tooth prior to the set. Whether or not that was my fault is up to speculation. In the meantime, I’m glad the golden gods allowed me to witness the two-man wrecking crew pre-MDF, because lord knows I won’t get that same privilege in the balmy climes of Baltimore. Tear.

It’s my 2 year anniversary and 150th post. Damn. Nails – Abandon All Life

Abandon All Life (Southern Lord Records)

Wow. Just wow. Words cannot describe the sheer brutality and audio-terror inflicted by California hate-crew NAILS on their third full-length opus. This album brings all of the hatred bubbling under every human’s seemingly still skin, and causes it to erupt with the force of Eyjafjallajökull. NAILS has flawlessly perfected their blend of the  blasting Metalcore fury of TRAP THEM with the powerviolent swagger of CAPITALIST CASUALTIES and MAGRUDERGRIND, galloping D-beat in the vein of ANTI-CIMEX and RIISTETYT, a savage dose of thrashcore leaning that hearkens to fellow warriors EARLY GRAVES and TRASH TALK, topped with a classic Swedish Death Metal guitar tone like that of ENTOMBED and UNLEASHED. Taking influence from diverse, yet brutal sources, NAILS was born ready to destroy, and they have been quite successful.

2009′s Obscene Humanity and 2010′s Unsilent Death held you by the throat and didn’t let up until they were over, but now, they beat you with shovelfuls of hot coal. Last year’s split with SKIN LIKE IRON and revamped Obscene Humanity joints showed that they were doing anything but lying and occasionally diverting energy to the upcoming LP. NAILS has a work-ethic that makes their brand of Hardcore so vital and punishing for the listeners, just how they like it. With Abandon All Life now unleashed on the world, no one is safe in the pit. 

From start to end, NAILS has shown that yes, they can up the ante as far as violence goes. Pure American aggression was plentiful in previous releases, and rest assured, it’s the same blood-boltered beast of old, but they’ve only grown more violent, and more willing to see death and destruction unfold before them. Their newly added guitarist Saba may have a lot to do with this increase in their merciless musical gnashing, as guitars were once solely on the shoulders of vocalist Todd Jones (ex-BETRAYED). Armed with another soldier to cover more killing ground, it’s game-set-match for your face.

I could sit here and describe all of the tracks, but it’d just become hyperboles relating to how the band will metaphorically kill you. Just know that you’re in for a ride, start to end, as the album wastes no time in opening with “In Exodus”, a punishing breakdown busting in the doors of your ears, and leads immediately into a furious grind section with Todd’s howls doubly vitriolic, and the drums crashing like thousands of buildings collapsing at once. It’s nuts how much speed and aggression NAILS can pack into a single track, and yet still do sludgier hits like the closer Suum Cuique justice in the same fashion. Even more amazing is how even though this is their third full-length outing of misanthropic grinding hatecore, we’re still eagerly anticipating the next ravaging. In short, this is some good shit, homie. They are currently on tour with XIBALBA and EARLY GRAVES, so I look forward to hearing how well you fare just being in the venue when the eruption happens.

The Verdict: Fuck.

Grade: A+

Fizzle presents: Anti-Islamic Black Metal and a report on the disturbing trend of Pizza Thrash

I’d like y’all to give a right’n'rowdy welcome to a new guest contributor, Nick, who chose the alias Fizzle, in case someone puts a fatwa on his head and kills him with a pipin’ hot pizza. He’s written a couple of short (and by short, I mean short) pieces because hey, he’s a nice guy like that and would like to share. Of course, I’ll make it a discussion, all scholarly like. You will learn something, maybe.

Anti Islamic black metal

 

F: In Black metal there is a huge rise in the scene with a Anti-Islamic message. Even in highly populated Muslim countries.

T: Indeed, the goal; to piss everyone off until they find you and megakill you.

F: Bands like Seeds of ibilis, Janaza , and تدنيس (tad-nees) are the driving force of this new trend of black metal attacking Islam.

T: With killer logos to boot. Melechesh is just gonna look like a group of twats in comparison.

F: Even in those countries where there are Islamic extremists you got to have balls to attack a religion like that especially in the Middle East; they would kill you there.

T: Sent to the graveyard and removed from play steaze. Yu-Gi-Oh! references aren’t cool, I know.

F: I personally am glad someone is still using shock factor but honestly in this day in age nothing is shocking.

T: 

Couldn’t resist.

F: Plus the music they are making is fucking killer. It evokes emotion and pissing people off. I love it and hope they keep the black metal scene alive.

T: Ist krieg, shall never die, etc. Jam on my bruthas.

Pizza Thrash

F: Pizza thrash- is a new trend popping up (or at least of what I am now noticing) it is the type of kids that go to the show/concert already drunk!

T: Hey man, with the price of beer at shows and bars, I don’t blame them for a lil’ pre-game.

F: And they are wicked obnoxious talking about bro things like sports and picking up chicks at the concert like seriously I just wanna see some good live performance not be fucking annoyed by babbling retards.

T: You’d be amazed at the play these guys get. It’s like swaggots got ahold of a few Hirax records.

F: They also love Monster; they may even being wearing clothing appeal that has the logo on it.

T: The way some kids think nowadays, they probably think it’s a band. It’s like the Misfits effect in reverse.

F: And they usually wear those stupid snap backs with the flat rim top.

T: Get bent takes on new meaning.

F: They fucking love to crash a good time and probably play beer pong with and play Madden football games.

T: In their defence, while drunk, I bet Madden would be fucken hilarious. Sober, I’d sooner have a hysterectomy.

F: They’re the type of kids that makes me not wanna be part of the same fucking music scene. Usually the rich spoiled kid in white suburbs thinking they’re hardcore and brutal.

T:

DEFENDERS OF THE HATExMOSH.

That was fun, let’s do this again sometime.

Take off your thinking caps, it’s time for Forest Of Remorse – Lashed To The Altar Of Fornication

Let’s get stupid up in this piece. Or not, because it’s hard to decide when dealing with Forest Of Remorse, a band that can only be described as “coming from New England”, with members from Massachusetts, Vermont, and New Hampshire, though they convene in NH, so let’s just say Namshaw. So, Forest Of Remorse is a Death Metal band from Namshaw, and this is their EP, boasting 5 songs of sonic headfuckery that doesn’t know what to do with itself, but will punch you in the mouth and then saw you open. If you smell a track-by-track treatment, you’re correct.

Opening this pus-filled cadaver, one is immediately treated with “Atlas Resolve”, and immediately given a good idea of what to expect from the rest of the album. Starting out with some Technical Death Metal to rip your nose off, it then descends into a massive slamdown that’ll open up the pit, before a surprisingly melodic injection followed by a catchy jazzy djent section. It’s as if Devourment began jamming with Intronaut, pretty cray. In step with slam tradition, the song ends with a shovel beatdown of distorted, damn near sludgy crawls, backed by RJ’s sewer gutturals and Blake’s earthsplitting drums. It’s time for hyperbole, so put your thinking caps back on.

World Of Industry, oh man. What is that sound RJ makes after the circlepit section? It’s like the female vocalist from Despise You having an aneurysm. After that the music takes an odd turn, becoming a windmill-headbangable blast-beat and tremolo section, followed not by a slam, but a groovy pseudo-breakdown and a return to the semi-thrash. It continues in a fashion that sort of fizzles out, but it maintains some heaviness, though a megaslam would have really sealed the deal.

Every great EP needs a throwaway track, and the backwoods boiz in Forest do just that in Chicken Lover. It reminds me of Thou/EyeHateGod type sludge, but instead of screeched or even growled vocals, a symphony of clucks, yipping, and X-rated dirty Southerner howls for your chicken fucking pleasure. Makes me hungry to no end, I tell ya what.

Frail is an old track, re-animated from Forest Of Remorse’s salad days of being a doom/deathcore band, but given a little more vitality from RJ’s vokills. It’s certainly a crowd pleaser, much to Blake’s chagrin, who regards it as a prose unworthy fecal nightmare. Okay, that’s not true, but he’d prefer that it be a little more complex, or something. I’m not getting paid for this so I don’t care. It does end in a grindy freakout that would please Fused-era The Red Chord lovers, so that’s also an option.

Ritual Penetration just may be one of the best tracks on the EP for its sheer simplicity and heaviness, following the kooky opening that makes it truly stand out. So, next time you’re at a party and somehow forget the track’s name, you can just say it starts like “doo-dee-doo-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo-doo”, accounting for pitch, of course. But anyhow, this track is bottom-heavy to the max. Chris and Alex dispense with notions of technicality for the greater part of the track, and slam til they can’t slam any harder while RJ voids himself of his pancreas. If you tryna git ignant in the pit, this is your dream track. Despite the relentless chugs, RJ keeps it fresh by not allowing his vocals to become a single monotone slime monster purr, and Blake’s drumming is of course, rhythmically tight but not unremarkable.

Serotonin Hell brings back some of the technicality that was showcased more in the beginning of the EP, and has a catchiness that you can shake ya ass to, but watch yourself. It’s not the most interesting track, but you can tell the boys put some actual songwriting into this one, though that’s not to say the others are poorly written. The ending slam, I feel, could have been much heavier and de-tuned, but the melody on top of it was a nice touch and brought some balance, so perhaps it would have sounded silly otherwise.

And that there is my take on this EP that’s been bouncing around for a few months. It takes me forever to do a lot of things, even if I like them. Something’s very wrong. All I’ll say in closing is that this is a very promising start for the band, and despite some obvious recording quality limitations and some songs that could use improvement as far as structure, it’s a damn fine release that’s good for ages 8 and up.

The Verdict: More Popeye’s.

Grade: B+

Exhausted Minds, Sonic Warfare, Musical Starvation, Polluted Soundwave Problems, Poison Messages. The Eventual Result – DropDead & Brain Killer At The Cambridge Elk’s Lodge

My deary my, what a show. It’s a shame I haven’t already been a frequent patron of the Cambridge Elk’s Lodge, but I didn’t become cool until sometime last year, so take that into consideration before you weigh it to heavily against me. Plenty of wacky pictures were taken, look here if you’re interested. Okay fine, here’s one featuring the Spaniard.

Spearheading the phalanx were local boiz Bloodkrow Butcher, whose name makes one think of a Native American serial killer.

Not much one can say about Bloodkrow Butcher aside from they play fast and furious punk rock. The singer’s mic wasn’t even on, but he could still be heard over it. How do I know it wasn’t on? Elementary, dear Watson: The volume when he was shouting into it and not shouting into it was equal, therefore I know that it wasn’t on at all, but some semblance of words could yet be heard, and that my friends, is punk rock spurred. It’s basic, dirty, and raw. Pogo, skank, etc. Just have fun.

Following BKB were Brain Killer, hometown heroes making this show their last, and leaving with a big bang of noisy energy rivaling the Japanese scene.

I had come back into the Elk’s some minutes after Brain Killer began, having taken a brief sojourn to 7-11 to beat the heat, and also witness some hoodrat drama between the finest ratchet hoes you’ve ever laid eye on, but ask the Spaniard, for he has all the details.

Brain Killer’s ferocity is rivalled only by the beard of one of the vocalists. Yowza, that’s one fine upside-down hair mountain. I can find no pictures, but rest assured, it’s a marvel. This same vocalist is in the band No Sir I Won’t, so you’ll be able to enjoy his live vocal talents for some time to come. The other guy, I can’t say the same about, since I’m not sure if he’s in any other bands. Regardless, it’s a shame to see such a good band go, but at least the crowd didn’t slack in their vicious assault of one another to commemorate the swansong of local legends. If anyone was injured, then perhaps it was a great success.

DropDead, on the other hand, show no signs of slowing down, and with this rare treat, they threw down the gauntlet as the crowd threw down their fists, showing they are here to stay for a long time.

No pictures, because I can’t find a good one. Sue.

Powerviolence/Grind/Crust legends from Lovecraft County, celebrating 23 years of waging war on all that is melodious and unaware of human travesty, thought it good to grace Boston with their malevolence, having not made the journey since that Middle East date with Trap Them, Burning Love, and Converge, the lattermost of whom they released a killer split with. This band is indefatigable, its style is impetruous. It’ll rip out your heart, it’ll eat your children. They’re loud, abraisive, and of course, have an important message, but they’re the type of band that’ll make you actually listen because they’re just that damn good.

It’s a “you had to be there to see it” kind of situation, but the fact that I survived the whirlwind of legs, arms, and haphazardly thrown beer cans without a scratch is none short of miraculous. Some upfront mic-sharing and headbanging does wonders for the next morning, I tell ya what. And one can’t help but notice the impeccable similarity between DropDead’s bassist George and Tom of Draize fame. Must be the wraparound glasses and the chrome dome? I’m getting sidetracked. It was a celebration of pure punk fury. An important message, but without the pretense or insincerity of some modern bands. If you want a band that means what they say, then get behind DropDead. Wear their shirts to your cousin’s funeral.

Banned From The D.C.? Okay. Ramming Speed & Iron Reagan @ The Democracy Center

This is the biggest I could find, honest. 

It’s good-natured small gigs liek these that make one remember how alike punks and Thrashers (and to a point, all Metalheads) are when you get them together. Think on it: Both wear black a lot, both are societal outcasts with atypical haircuts, they both wear patches and ripped clothing, etc. To say nothing of the music itself. Thrash Metal is essentially Iron Maiden and Judas Priest fans mainlining punk rhythms and throwing the resulting brew into a pressure cooker to ferment and sweeten. And now onto the show review before I turn this into an essay on how Thrash and Hardcore fans should hang out more.

Opening this festival ofthe damned was Meth Valley, a gang of talented local thrashers fronted by some crazy guy I’ve seen at mad shows, MDF included. Thrash is a hard genre to innovate in without turning it into something else by accident, so these longhairs played it safe and by the book, albeit without inducing yawns. If you like Razormaze, check ‘em.

Next up were Boston Hardcore guys Draize, alternating between the slow and punishing and the fast and punishing extremes with equal skill.

Everyone’s favourite bespectacled baldie decided to go at this gig barefoot, which is a ballsy as fuck move considering how much punks usually love to wear boots or something. Nary a toe was injured, luckily, as the walls churned with heat, leather, and fist while the dance floor surged with pent-up anger and good times.

Oh how I missed my poetic verve.

It’s not very often one gets to see Draize, much less hear them, since a certain amount of mystery prevents them from posting tracks online, despite the many available avenues with which a band may do so today. If you don’t know the songs, you don’t know them, and you never will unless you buy their stuff, so there’s that. It’s all good and dark, and makes you want to kill, so it hardly matters in the end, as long as you don’t act a fool.

Highlights of the set: A huge fat guy herkie-ing like nobody’s business, and getting full-body lifted and placed back down by a guy half my height while I was in the middle of a graceless two-step.

Iron Reagan, featuring Tony Foresta from Municipal Waste and some other guys because fuck it, it’s Tony Foresta and that basically makes it Municipal Waste by proxy, followed to bring some groovin’ Thrash served in a radioactive barrel. Or something.

This being their first tour as a band, it’s amazing how quickly they’ve all settled into the whole live dealie. Granted, they are seasoned musicians, and probably all hang out, but my word, you’d think they’ve been doing this as Iron Reagan for years already. Tony’s charismatic control of the crowd’s friendly violent fun, the vivious axe attack of fellow ‘Waster Landphil, bass duties gregariously filled by a certain guy named paul, and drum noise made by Darkest Hour’s own Ryan Parrish. You’ve got yourself a crew that’s ready to rock, and has a Cro-Mags cover to lay on you troglodytic fucks. It’s pretty rad. The circlepit isn’t a frequent sight at the D.C., so get educated and run around.

Headlining were local heroes Ramming Speed, who have been bestowed the honour of being a possible gay porno title by The A.V. Club for their year-in review of band names. I’m sure they gained about 54 new fans as a result.

Imagine you took the Party Hard attitude of Andrew W.K. but turned party rock into party thrash, with a good helping of pizza and perhaps carrots, and proclamations of Shane Embury being the Brad Pitt of grindcore. It’s true, go listen. While Ramming Speed do everything they do in good fun, there’s some serious talent bubbling under the comedic skin. Major shreddage, vocals that vary from Thrash shouts to Death Growls and even some well-done highs, drumming that can go from standard speed-metal to extreme blasting, and not to mention the fact that they can keep up with themselves and not fuck up. It’s a recipe that’s best drunk in large quantities and with friends around.

You know, this marks a rare occurrence; I’ve reviewed a show the day after it happened. Golly, I’m making my comeback. This is the year of the gutter rat, and I’m doing well everywhere except mothafuckin’ school. Kill pigs, have fun.