Apologies for running at the speed of Virginia Woolfe, but writing essays hurts, and sometimes renders my fingers immobile for hours at a time, regardless of difficulty or word count. Maybe my brain is going stale.
I’ve heard it pronounced right, and I still don’t know how. So yes, this band was pretty decent, I must say. I’ve kind of grown wary of any band that’s in the Melodeath arena, but they’re good enough not to be avoided, yet I personally am not scratching my arms nervously for another chance to hear them. Is there a new rule that states that every Death Metal band with a fair amount of melody must have no less than two Alexi Laiho signature style guitars?
These guys are what I’ll refer to as Technical Word Metal. They’re technical, melodic, maybe a little blackened, and have an affinity for sesquipedalian loquaciousness. Seriously, just look at that title. Sting is somewhere counting his millions and simultaneously overcome with a mysterious paroxysmal fit of pure lucid ecstasy.
Purple Rayne is a fucken good vocalist, and he filled in well for Joel Slamtzy Pants while he hacked up black bile on the side. I really must question why Rayne doesn’t do backing vocals and stuff, unless he does, and then I look like a right cunt for being wrong. The whole band functioned well as a unit, and told odious tales of old ladies going on shotgun rampages, penis shrinkage, and the amoeba who generously bequeathed upon these gentlemen its fair title.
Mister Pantz stepped in to “guest” on one of the songs, I don’t remember and I’ll not even bother trying. I say, he should rejoin the band full time when he stops dying of syphilis.
Shame on everyone who didn’t stick around for these hearty noble men’s set. I had only seen these guys once almost two years ago, it was a relief to see them again. I been away too long, and it flattened my nose.
Slamming on occasion, Goreality may not look like much at first glance, but man they pack a punch. Every member is on point (the drummer fudged a couple bits, but the less said the better, I may have imagined it), though their stage presence needs a shot of adrenaline. Perhaps the lack of audience is due to some stiffness while playing, although I really don’t want to use that as an excuse. Fuck.
Going to the Slam show, gonna wear a lot of party hats. Oh the dances that were done, the battles that were won. Glorious bloodshed in the name of Composted at water parks, hardcore two-step rhythms, and eating pastries containing infant meat in a fanciful structure of human flesh obelisks.
Instead of a review, I’m going to express my contempt for Dysentery quitting their headlining set after four songs because of a broken bass, which did absolutely nothing to their sound, may I add.