Terminal Pressure (Review: Citizen 2-13, A Violent Means Til the End 2013)

How Citizen 2-13 built a time machine and went back to record Krakatoa's climate changing and earth shifting eruption, I don't know, but what I am dead certain of is that if by chance a as of yet undetermined number of us play A Violent Means Til the End simultaneously we are sure to trigger a volcanically induced mini  ice age. To say its heavy is like trying to suggest that the Titanic only suffered but a scratch, these energy rich dilated sine waves saturated in swift heavy ions will penetrate the thickest of barriers; not even 6 feet of reinforced lead and concrete will offer the slightest hindrance to this release from turning your grey matter into a liquidated slurry of irradiated mush. The release is harsh noise in the most literal of forms, a purity that eschews any aesthetics of craftsmanship or artistic signatures and exists solely as a mono-dimensional entity to brute sonic-power.

The release is perhaps anti-climatically succinct, more likely made to measure for a 7" vinyl more than the wider berth offered by cassette, but thats of marginal concern because when you are in the business of detonating to destroy total damage inflicted is of far greater significance than duration of punishment. 

What one can only assume to be the A Side (no markings on either side) superimposes a repetitious blood curdling female scream along a bedrock of tumultuous electronically agitated noise bellows before raining down an elephantine swarm of sound waves.

The B side  just continues this gluttonous consumption of sound space polluting the surrounding area into a regimented resonation of its bass & decibel heavy strikes, each thunderous clash splintering into a violent hiss-storm of disjointedly excited electrons, burning themselves into obliteration before the next exodus of sound.

A Violent Means Til The End, follows its own instructions and offers a wholly uncompromising monochromatic artifice of noise whose sonic pressures are only matched by a meagre handful of equals.

 

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Cynical Reality (Review: Nihilist Buddha, Nirvana in Nothingness 2013)

Nietzsche makes a strong case for overlaying convergence between Buddhism and Nihilism; the religion offering a prescription of spiritual epidemiology and escapism to abate the horrors in the world and give positive meaning to otherwise futile human endeavor. However one man merchant of disgust Nihilist Buddha isn't one to sit down meditating these problems away instead he goes for the to defeat the monster one must become a monster approach, phonically converting all that rancor into a tidy sum of blast beats and chaotic passages. 

It took quite a while for me to warm up to the idiosyncratic retrograde machine-drum splatters, burly guitar grumbles and malignant vocal spews to take any cohesive meaning for me, but after repeated listens Nirvana in Nothingness reinforces its destructiveness and the album becomes rather likable, its shortfalls replaced by awe for its particular rare breed of sonic fallout. 

At its most base its Enemy Soil, Extreme Noise Terror and assorted flavourings of crust are put into a industrial strength blender and whipped into a lumpy and discoloured blend of them all. Nihilist Buddha ups the perversion however taking a few left of centre drapes that add a reflexive twist to its arsenal, take penultimate track Illusion of Safety that has an industrial hip-hop type flare which I may be inclined to label crunkstep based on perceived similarities on my 2 minutes of research. Although far from the playing field and out of character if played in its predetermined order following and final track  Disruption of Discontent shows this electronic endeavor corrupted in a begrimed industrial bleakness, reeking of auditory despair and brings the album back to its  rightful conclusion; that no matter how hard we try to distract ourselves ultimately all undertakings and meaning is abstract and futile. 

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Baritone Bulk (Review: Gowl, Buzzbox 2013)

Gowl - Buzzbox

Having departed from the tape format, Gowl now crawl out of the comfort of their basement and 8 track recorder, and into the recording studio, yet domestication is nowhere near the horizon and for the better, because Gowl have been permeating the authentic dimly lit hotbox of sweat, testosterone and cut-rate booze gulping ecosystem one fondly connects to only the most dilapidated of basement shows and the carnage to go with it, and now with latest entrant the Buzzbox EP Gowl have turned from an everyday band into a fully fledged acoustic demolitions crew. 

The Buzzbox EP is a behemoth of sound, conducting its low end Goliathan stomps in tune to the marching order of Pintado's face-meets-stage headbang of pre-millennial Terrorizer (forget all that reunion nonsense), whilst a chaotic swarm of proleptical Agathocles ping pongs itself along the sound column adding heaps of turbulence to the mix. Gets Worse and Gowl are kin in that their low end abyssal sound output appears on radar as the Big Bloop, but the cackling electron shitstorm buzzing about in threads of ferrous wiring give Gowl a a considerably knotted and contorted extrerior that violently flays itself aimlessly into realms of noise-grind on numerous occasions. The very process of physically engaging this EP on is an exercise in blast induced barotrauma, and one that feels like it will force your speakers to self destruct as they over-exert themselves into translating all those grooves and crevices into Mike Tyson knockout blows. 

Although there is no doubt Gowl are most destructive on those all or nothing reckless zig-zag sprints, when the band stumble back to a nice midpace jog having just recoiled from smashing the sound barrier, a different facet of powerhouseing comes into play, thick circular rolls and archs of bass and decibel heavy sine waves dilute and distort the atmosphere in almost regal majesty, well as regal as a king of vermin can be. 

Strap yourselves in tight.

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Rage, Rage against the Dying of the Light (Review: False Light, ST 7" 2013)

There is something wholly necrotic rippling through the powerviolence bloodstream, a  malefic smear that has seen the genre eclipsed in darkness as a new cabal of misers take hold of its artistic reins, cascading it ever deeper into an unknown and seemingly endless subterranean abyss. Among those crepehangers endorsing if not orchestrating this penumbra of punk would be False Light, a dour four piece clinched in a curious squirm between dissonant sludge-bound exhalations and violent seizures of enmity. Vision and execution align precisely on the microscopic parallels as False Light seduce a vast array of nameless phantasms into the coil of their tightly bound claustrophobic covin, antagonizing and brutalizing each and every fragment of musical expenditure in an overzealous exorcism. False Light just reek of unrequited artistic passion bordering on the insane, every kilojoule of energy spent and every decibel ruptured has been compelled towards the continued construction and maintenance of the oily fume laden atmospheric density, nothing ever leaves the paradigm nor does anything foreign ever enter. Despite the insular essentially of it all, there is a positively organic albeit pestilential growth to it, an ever expanding blot of ink that by the end of it will see you quoting Nietzsche and assessing the futility of artistic endeavor

Inaugural track Rotting Teeth is an ordeal of grit punctuated with various mosh moments and knuckle scraping goodness, a jagged mode of operation that resurfaces with the physical penultimate track Lung, whilst tracks such as The Great Unwashed and Praxis are far more rigid in their uncompromising attitude, hemorrhaging ire and ichor as a result of continuous musical self mutilation, and lest we forget 36 second sprinter Almighty Thief that jumps on the offensive with a blast beat blitzkreig. Alas 7" of wax couldn't hold what would of been their dirge-ing finale ///, an almost 6 minute epoch of lamentation and echoes in the jaws of darkness, a drop-me down that shares little in the way of form from and presentation to its predeceasing tracks yet all of its grizzly vision. 

False Light

Dead Chemists Records / Headfirst! Records

Rise of the Planet of the Apes (Review: Various Artists, Incident At Ape Canyon 2013)

Take Your Stinkin' Paws Off Me You Damn Dirty Ape! To the untrained ear grindcore may indeed sound like a bunch of unwashed hairy apes proceeding to violate instruments as pieces of paraphernalia to bludgeon and caterwaul in the most graceless of customs... wait that's exactly what grindcore is, erm right, lets move along. 

Spain's Violent Headache lead the vanguard of the compilation levying a sooty rag-tag patchwork of early Dahmer and earlier still Napalm Death into an overzealous crust crusade. The band themselves represent one of Spains most accomplished yet criminally underrated grind contributors, their hard featured loom of extrovert crust and primal grindcore is as deadly as it is musically repugnant, a combination like to bring a singular approving nod from any self respecting grindcore fan; and their contribution to the comp is no different.  It might be a bit moth-bitten at times as its archaic blusters reek of the early 90's,  but that may easily be forgiven since the material itself dates back to 1996 yet more importantly its one of those timeless still breaking from the Siege blueprint inspired grindcore affairs that never gets old. 

Far less serious, but equally visceral in delivery are Captain Three Leg who depart from their traditional make noise not music competence and go for an all out punk attack that easily ranks as one of the greatest musical U turns to date, because Captain Three Leg are killing it as if Slap-a-ham 1 to 50 were the only albums ever conceived in the history of punk. Its the excitability of Spazz with the delivery of Lack of Interest ; have I just come across my new favourite old-school style Powerviolence band? I think so. Stylised mischievous vocals are sprayed against a wall of spasmodic riffs and holding an equally evasive drum rhetoric necessitates that at the end of their 15 track contribution to the comp you will need both scoop up your grey matter and pick up your jaw from the floor. If Captain Three Leg are reading this then I demand/beg of you to make more of this. 

If you are anything like myself then after listening to Captain Three Leg for about the 100th time you will finally decide to move along with the compilation and will be greeted with the familiar surfs-up warm breeze of Wadge. For the uninitiated Wadge represent the most outrageous of matrimonies by unifying the Hawaiian culture and history to the cold and ultimately hostile spirits of Grindcore, the dedication to the theme extending well beyond lyrics and album arts but a full fledged substantive foundation to the rhythmic direction. Wadge without a doubt are an acquired taste, but they also happen to be one of the most creative bands and somehow have not exhausted the whole Hawaii-Grind type theme yet, who would of thought there was enough blood in such an affair? Give me tiki-bearing surfing midget spirits over Transylvanian grimoire any day of the week. 

Next up are Iron Butter, an Anal Cunt Noisecore incarnate of sorts, marginally more co-ordinated in form, although still wholly skeletal orchestrally, but with a far greater arch of devastation as they release their tortured grind scrawl. Indomitably untamed throughout, as each track bursts in from the other a sort of grand sense of delusion seems to tighten its grip almost justifying the band as the expressions of some sort of misunderstood lunatic. Their ending track is a total buzzkill however, If I wanted to listen to a full minute of autotuned hip-hop nonsense I would of turned on MTV.

Rupture bring the comp back into the flow of things, its easy to forget just how fast this band are/were, either that or someone has been a bit too overzealous with the fast forward button. Production is ungracious and for the most part a diluted blur of elements and crackling feedback, and there are moments when I am not sure if I am listening to Rupture or Gorgonized Dorks. Bad production has never stopped me from liking a band before, and if you concentrate hard enough demystifying the opaque cling film that obscures the lot, there are some really choice riffs going on and a lively vocal throttle too,  yet the percussion remains the key casualty of the sandpaper production.

You ever seen the Sopranos? There is this one trivial minor reoccurring character, a comedian whose comedy is so vapid more laughs may be derived from the presence of a dead animal than the entirety of his routine; and I feel the same about Fossil Fuel. Its click drum seedy rock n roll comedy wrought with artistic licence, joyfully teasing its parts and sources, its own self-deprication intentionally a source of humour, but it just all falls flat from the very beginning. Sticks out like a sore thumb, pity the CD is not CD-RW. 

Pantalones Abajo Marinero are gore drum machine set up, some really good riffs in there and considering that its a drum machine there are quite a few commendable choices in how the drums are employed, but its the Gremlins vocal style that throws me off, the more I hear it the more infuriated I become. As you may know I am not a fan of gore type stuff, but I would imagine that for those of you that are then Pantalones Abajo Marinero would be just the ticket for blood splatter and manic smiles.

Whoretorn are a form of goreish band  I can get behind, nothing but pure pummelling fury, although they only contribute two songs to the compilation the density of their tracks easily remedies any misgivings and puts them among the top contributors to the comp in terms of blast beats served and blunt force trauma inflicted. Vocals sound identical to Seth Putnams idiosyncratic banshee shrill, combining that with the low end elastic grooves Whoretorn serve up with mean efficiency and control makes them a force to be reckoned with.

Dysmorfic are somewhat more casual than Whoretorn, but offer a solid grind masquerade no less, higher on the register and alot more dexterous in delivery. Real solid effort with little to moan about, alot of tension in the works and while guitars more often than not are rather conservative delivering what they do best; short controlled bursts of punk bile, their guitar adventurism doesn't go amiss and put on offer some rather unexpected turns that hook nicely deep. 

Mortville Noise / At War With False Noise / DIY Noise / Hurts To Hear / Pure Fckn' Hate Prod. / Luchacore Records