In the interest of transparency: Creeping Death have three things going for them right now. The first is that gorgeous cover artwork. The second is the fact that I downloaded Wretched Illusions before clambering into this airplane, and, lo and behold, theirs is one of the few albums currently available for the duration of this flight. Thirdly, and most importantly, is that Creeping Death peddles a thoroughly solid brand of death metal, and that is all and everything this weary scribe is craving at the moment. When I'm feeling this malnourished, nothing sticks to my bones quite like meat 'n' potatoes death. No bells and whistles for me, please. Just the inevitability of crushing riffage, throat-wrenching growls, and enough thrash-derived adrenaline to keep me awake, thankyouverymuch. But enough talk. Let's hit that runway, shall we?
While many of you are likely aware of the plague pit we keep out back here at the Sleeping Village, a better kept secret is our vomit pit. That's where we go when the going gets...gross. Luckily, Pornographic Seizures, the debut from Ohio's nigh unpronounceable Sanguisugabogg, comes with an appropriate warning on the label: "we are not responsible for any instantaneous vomiting upon listening." Thanks, guys. Long story short, we made it out to the aforementioned vomit pit prior to hitting play on this 4-track grotesquerie , and everyone is for the better because of it.
Pornographic Seizures is just that: gross. Obviously. And in that spirit, as is the case of most metal of this variety, it's a bit of a race to see how many negative words I can attribute in a positive light.
Despite all the insult-flinging in our direction, we Villagers just had to have Captain Graves (of Advent Varic) back for another review in typically pugilistic fashion. Today: Tartarus Horde's self-titled debut. Enjoy! - Ed.
I've been summoned to The Village once again. This time for some music out of my realm of normal listening. You know The Captain prefers a more depressive style. They sent me a weird device called a "tape," I've never seen anything like it. I searched far and wide at the stores to find a mundane object here on your planet to find a way for it to play. On Saturn 9, I usually just take whatever files I feel, maybe this was a smart move, or a way to prevent me from stealing their music. I bet this was this was the work of the Necrosexual, that Weak bastard.
There is something aggressively unsettling--nay, terrifying--about fungi. And I'm not talking about the prospect of eating then, because here at the Village, we can get down with a variety of mushrooms (from a culinary perspective.) Nor am I referring to the one-bite wonders of the world, the Deathcaps and the Autumn Skullcaps and the Destroying Angels, of which the most delicate of bites brings, in many cases, coma or death. No. I'm talking about a vision of mycological apocalypse. The worldwide decomposition at the gaping maw of all-consuming saprophytic fungi--a form of fungus that gains its life-force through the gourmandization of decaying organic matter. As we die, the ultimate decomposer has its way with our remains...and so survives when all else finds inevitable demise. Given the sheer staying power of fungus, it all seems very possible, this eventual process of worldwide reverse fungi-cide. And, unlike zombies, said apocalypse has a concrete basis in biological reality. Scary shit, no matter how you slice it.
While it may go against convention at our humble Village, I think, in this case, it’s best to let the album artwork do all the talking. Those (techni)colors. That monstrous chain-whipping entity. The iron-clad horde. The font. Need I really break out the thesaurus to describe what Portland’s endlessly entertaining Soul Grinder sounds like? Methinks not. This is heavy metal at its most overt, and, thus, its most...fun. From the massive drums, to the riffs, to the wretch’d screams of April Dimmick (aka Prilzor), The Prophecy of Blight encompasses and exudes the slimy excess--sonic, visual, and thematic--that we fans of the genre crave. Secretly or no. But yet, through the jubilant viscerality, Soul Grinder treat their craft with an earnest and mature confidence.
We provide thoughtful reviews of music that is heavy, gloomy...and heavy enough to wake us from slumber. Written by a certain groggy-eyed and highfalutin' peasantry.