Review: Dysmorfic / Death On/Off 7"

Viva Italia! Two soot bedraggled grind ogres from Italy share wax and violent tendencies here, one band tried and tested the other new so consider this split a nice albeit small sampled summation of the brawn in Italy's modest grind scene. First up are Dysmorfic - veterans who probably don't need much of an intro other than that alongside Cripple Bastards they are the most prolific and assiduous of the peninsulas bands. Those uninitiated to the bands endemic breed of scum-addled deathgrind slathered in thick brutish grime will run the risk of concussion should they not dodge those wide arced swipes of hellish din. Their side is split into two fully fleshed tracks complete with the consuming smear of necrotic tissue in this case represented by a particularly nefarious string routine that whilst good even at its weakest moments, now and again throbs through some seductive black magic. 

Death On / Off are a much newer band and it shows only in the more positive of senses, their tone is far more wirey and their music altogether is far more energetic and enthusiastic. Tensile riffs and a bed of blast beats are punctuated with your typical duo/plurastic range of grindcore vocals, one being your typical animalistic high and the other that booze gurgling mouth frothing low. Death On / Off throw in a few microsongs and more normal grind lengths, this compounded by their haste makes their half a lot more dense and claustraphobic. The only downside to their otherwise stellar performance is the overlapping porn samples that come at various points in the music, it just kills off all the intensity they fought tooth and nail to build and in that sense seems rather counter-intuitive. 

Dysmorfic / Death On/Off

Released By

Scull Crasher Records

Zas Autoproduzioni (Italy),

Hecatombe Prod. (Spain),

Earthquacke Terror Noise (Italy) 

Review: Jagernaut / Terlarang, 2012

Greek crust behemoths Jagernaut bring forth their very own apocalypse through the tried and tested yet timeless methodology of grind infused punk vitiriol. Their half of the split is packed with more clamour and filth than a room full of politicians, and their rhythmic qualities exude the classic bottomed out crust qualities stooped in nauseating thickness and dishevelled conferral, tirelessly vomiting out dank Doom idolatory minus the 90's guitar fuzz, like the great defilers of peace they are. True to their heritage a thick slather of vocal vulgarity screams and roars all manner of malice to the horrors of the world completing the ethos whilst adding another branch of horror to this gritty yet fulfilling piece of virulence.

Malaysia's Teralang occupy a completely different yet equally fulfilling portion of the extreme punk spectrum, where Jagernaut sought to disgust Teralang seek to invigorate and perhaps even confuse with their madball thrash parade, that stumbles across as a preposterous merger of the likes of Hellnation and XbrainiaX with a load of funky genes thrown in for good measure too. Its goofy fastcore with heaps of awesome, really perky upbeat riffs, psychotic blastbeating and deranged vocal tantrums. You see that brain blasted cow on their side of split? Yeah that's genuinely what happens to you when you listen to this mad raving!

Jagernaut / Terlarang

Meatpacker Double

If you haven't heard Meatpacker yet consider yourself a lamb to the slaughter in their well oiled machine of grind death, and what a horrible machine it is. Butchery commences through an almost mechanical process of sedative turn nauseating riffs swiped with obtuse angularity, accompanied by the unsettling constant of factory style thumping and thrumming,  this mechanical whir is repeatedly pierced by screams of a mutilated harbinger of death, screaking with an intensity that underpins the excessive spew of his vigour and anxiety both.  These mangled rythmic limbs and assorted bits of musical gristle are thrown together to create an atmosphere that reeks of a special kind of death, one characterised by intense agony and despair. Lyrical content is equally lurid and morbid, yet it employs a clever sense of duality running parallels between the meat industry and society at large. 

Fetus Christ are without a doubt the UK's best kept grind secret at the moment, they are characterised by their subtle stylistic idiosyncrasies such as their particular bumble bee buzzsaw tone, a vocalist in need of a strepsil lozenge,  marshalled drum routine and frequent outbreaks of  maddening intensity. Fetus Christ are in a back to front way in full possession of those hallmark UK crust qualities and easily have enough steam to batter the best of their crusty brethren, but at the same time they possess and intimate flush of tomfoolery that rubs off on their music too, and without a doubt its for the better. Their musical presence here seems so authentic that when in full swing (which really only takes them only a handful of seconds tops) you can almost smell the sacred perfume of sweat, dust, cheap booze and Amber Leaf, in fact every time I listen to their half I have an uncontrollable urge to break out a few tinnies and rollies.... consider this instructional for the authentic Fetus Christ experience. 


Now this match up is a bit more esoteric.

As before Meatpacker splatter us with their dissonantly bliss blood bath, and what a gruesome orgy of flesh, blood and appetency it continues to be. This cassette is filled with Meatpackers usual grind lamentations, except for the fact we are graced with a  duo of Offspring covers here (well one really), Meatpacker of course not failing in leashing and brutalising these once energetic and virile songs into taxidermist husks of their former selves. Furthermore the best Meatpacker track to date is found on this split too, Baby Guts!!!!!!!!!!!

Sky:Lark! Find me at a loss for words, but in a very positive and confusing way, my like for them is more an admission of defeat than it is of compassion, because Sky:Lark! are using some really perplexing post punk/rock? (I have no idea what this is) and really trippy progressions so much so it hurts my head trying to reason it. They did right by opening with track 7 bodies since the track is notable for its sense of  total malaise and its throbbing vein of enmity, an almost artistic parallel as we reel back in horror from the butchery of Meatpacker. Tracks thereafter are less venomous, although a sense of discord or distress is never far from hand, and the intensity of such an irregular experience doesn't slide either. Perhaps this is meant as a riddle for the ears?

I will go out on a limb here and state for the record that Meatpacker is a very rare breed of decibel glutton; it has both a flawless delivery and pioneers something incredibly intense. I mean what other band can offer drum patterns that would cause envy from a repentant Scott Hull or a nostalgic Richard Johnson? Or who else is able to conjure those simple yet devastating series of razor string entanglements that chokes, severs and lacerates in such a wicked plethora of ways? And lest we forget those hair raising screams that seem caught between an animal in distress and a haunting ghost. Every appendage of Meatpacker feeds back into itself, engorging the horrible abattoir of noise it has so ghastly painted.

Street Sects, The Morning After The Night We Raped Death 2014

And now for something completely different. 

Before you get round to listening to The Morning After The Night We Raped Death there is an accompanying manifesto/backstory, well worth a read and whilst I don't want to ruin any surprises  to you, its inferred that TMATNWRD is a concept album dedicated to being aware of our own mortality. And whilst one might come to expect existentialist philosophy to be the most tangential piece of mental stimulation a band might have going, with Street Sects the music is en par in the brain cranking department.

The Morning After the Night We Raped Death is a mind numbing digital phantasm sprung from catatonic beats and erratic rhythmic headway, synthesizing a genre frankenstein that takes life from everything between its vanguard of hardcore of the electronic variety in texture and suit, teeth grinding industrial blare, breakcore's infamous aggression in tempo and percussion heavy spiel and to a lessor extent the sonic palette cleanser of noise too. Populated with pneumatic drums, deranged samples and in possession of all the ambiance one might expect of a landfill of mangled circuitry to possess, Street Sects are harsh manipulators of all things digital, be they sample, machine drum or those nameless slithers of noise/ambiance that penetrate through. Street Sects seemingly erratic process of re-appropriation and corruption leads to a devastatingly disorientating yet also subtly euphoric sort of experience. 

Review: Dead Instrument, See Through Negative 2014


Some times less is more, and with See Through Negative from cathartic Danish grind hellions Dead Instrument condensing that fire brand grind that charred and sweltered us for 20 minutes of volcanic fury with the Violent Death LP, a reduction in scale from LP to EP is anything but a reduction in hostile activities, no no this is still an all out scorched earth type affair from some of the most hell bent men this side of Christendom. This isn't minimalism or scaling back or proportionality, what See Through Negative is though is black hole style compression with all that tectonic discord, wroth and guile we have seen them unleash before, now rammed into an 8 minute Pandora's box of blistering face melting grind carnage. First to great you is a sweaty and throaty vocal performance coagulated with blood that rolls off with such urgency and thickly slathered venom it may easily be mistaken for a demonic monologue, which I suspect may not to be too far off the truth given no ordinary man should be able to maintain such a rabid ferocity.  In tandem to this choleric choral we have a serrated musical projection, cutting quick and deep in a nimble fashion never quite severing the same rhythmic vein more than once, and whilst there is no moment of respite there are those precious fractions of a fraction of a second where a microscopic moment of silence seems like the musicians just might stop brutalising their instruments and begin brutalising one another, such is the intensity of their undertaking. 

Dead Instrument (Catch them on tour with PLF!)

Raw Birth Records