Tukaaria/Odz Manouk - "Raw to the Rapine/Odz Manouk" (2012) [Profound Lore]

Tukaaria and Odz Manouk are both part of Southern California's black metal collective the Twilight Black Circle, which also includes Ashdautus, Volahn, Arizmenda, Kallathon, Blue Hummingbird on the Left, Absum, and a host of others.  Centered around the now defunct Klaxon label (helmed by Bone Awl) and the currently operational Crepusculo Negro, the Twilight Black Circle takes its inspiration and a goodly part of its aestheticism from France's Les Legions Noire, the infamous black metal collective consisting of Vlad Tepes, Mutiilation, Torgeist, Belketre, Brenoritvrezorkre, etc.  The TBC releases are severely limited (though often repressed), difficult to come by, and represent some of the more obscure black metal currently manifesting in the US scene.  Profound Lore has embarked on what is hopefully a thorough reissue campaign of the TBC material, in lovingly remastered and repackaged editions.  "Raw to the Rapine" and "Odz Manouk" are the first two records to receive this deluxe treatment, and serve as a fine introduction to the TBC's archaic and mystical black metal art.

I.  RAW TO THE RAPINE

"Raw to the Rapine" is a compilation of the titular six-song full length originally released on Rhinocervs along with material from split releases with Volahn and Odz Manouk.  Though the recording quality differs between the three (all the material here boasts a fantastic remaster by Colin Marston), the overall sound is completely individualized as defined by the Twilight Black Circle template.  Dissonance and oblique melodicism are in abundance across "Raw to the Rapine," a crushing onslaught of anti-cosmic black metal usurpuration that absolutely shreds.  Guitars are bathed in reverb (much like Volahn), giving the multiple lead lines a scathing sort of presence in the mix, furiously tumbling along with the frenzied battery of muffled drums.  The vocals are varied: sometimes a frustrated, yearning howl from the void, sometimes a grunting bark closer to the coughing extremism of death metal, sometimes clean and deadpan.  These variances create a weird distance and disturbance alongside the equally angular music; the chaos seems controlled but willing to come unhinged at any moment.  Tukaaria obviously grasp the ideology of intensity and harness it to hammering effect across these twelve tracks, and the subtle differences in approach across them render the record almost psychedelic in its expanse.

While the album at first comes across as raw and borderline improvisational, multiple listenings reveal how intricately structured and conceptualized the material truly is.  The shrapnel discordance of "Origins" gives way to the beautifully obtuse melody of "Prehistoric Silence," referencing both the primal aggression of Darkthrone as well as the harmonic complexity of early Mutiilation.  "Mythology" and "Memories of an Extinct Race" both delve deep into the romantic diffusion and foggy yearning found in the Les Legions Noire material while embracing a caustic sort of avant-ism that I can only think of as "garage progressive."  Some of the riffs found throughout "Raw to the Rapine" are brilliant, exploring areas modern and classical black metal both have left in the darkness.  There's a mathematical quality to Tukaaria's structures that bears an affinity with bands like Woburn House and Klabautamann; the weird twists and deviations from black metal "normalcy" constitute a distinctly different take on the usually unbridled violence existing at the genre's core.  Not to say Tukaaria aren't violent, because they most certainly are-just that the slight detours found in their compositions seem bolder and more forward-thinking than many of their contemporaries'.  This is black metal operating at a higher level of intellectualization than the standard, at work with different principles and obsessions.  Like Volahn, Tukaaria a band are reaching for the hidden and mystic components buried in the architecture of the black metal elitism, a search that unearths treasures both dark and seductive.

II.  ODZ MANOUK

If anything, Odz Manouk represent an even higher level of intensity throughout their material; if Tukaaria were the anti-cosmic, pro-mystical side of the coin, then Odz Manouk are the purely cosmic, near Orthodox interpretation of magickal devotion.  Odz Manouk don't traffic in the willful abstractionism that Tukaaria do, instead choosing to embrace a much more classically-rooted approach to black metal aestheticism that falls somewhere between mid-era Deathspell Omega and the modern classicist approach of Ondskapt or S.V.E.S.T.  The rawness is still omnipresent but harnessed in service to added intensity as opposed to instrumental tonalities.  Melodies seems more familiar but still slightly misdirectional; the progressive leanings that permeate other bands in the TBC are virtually absent here, with Odz Manouk choosing to manifest their difficulty in the form of simplistic but flattening rock and roll riffs like those found in the amazing "The Indisciplinarian."  This is black metal at its most explosive, drenched in chokingly reverbed amounts of fuzz and drums.  The whole record is awash in the occultish, pro-Satanic atmosphere that defined the earliest Les Legions Noire recordings, as well as the bitterly gnostic ideology of Ofermod and the shamanistic ritualism of Arckanum.

"Odz Manouk" is one the finest black metal recordings I've heard in years.  Every song is a superlative example of what really defines black metal, whether it's the anti-religious fervor, the antisocialistic rebellionism, or the inherent violence and cathartic nature of speed and aggression.  "I Will Crush to Marrow this Crow of Ill" features gorgeous, ultra-melodic arpeggiated guitars chiming away beneath a gurgle of choking, dirt-soaked vocals, bringing to mind the best work of Leviathan.  Odz Manouk are more than adept at establishing an aura of psychedelicia within their black metal template: just listen to the awesome, bizarre opening of "The Roaming," as well as the vaguely dissonant and extremely catchy riff that closes it out and you'll hear a band capable of blending a multitude of influences into a coherent, supremely well-crafted whole.  The composition across "Odz Manouk" is nothing short of masterful; even though this material too is compiled from different recordings, it all flows as one incredible piece of black metal art.  There is a distinct and true identity here, bearing the marks of the best of the California scene (Leviathan, Draugar, Xasthur, Crebain, etc.) married to the Norma Evangelium Diaboli aesthetic.  Listening to this reminds me of how amazed I felt upon first hearing "Verrater"; the sort of revelatory power Odz Manouk wields is nothing to be trifled with.  Theirs is the rare combination of beauty, discordance, terror, and extremity that marks immortal black metal recordings.

Profound Lore has done an incredible service to the black metal community by reissuing these albums.  Both are nothing short of incredible, with the Odz Manouk compilation rising to the level of definitive.  It's nice to see the label taking up the black metal mantle again after a relentless onslaught of doom and death metal, and I sincerely hope they continue the series they've begun (the packaging on these is really nice: minimal A5s with some truly surreal artwork in each that only heightens the disconnect displayed in each release.)  The Twilight Black Circle is one of the more interesting black metal collectives currently in operation, and their output deserves a wider reach.  While they fall short of the true romantic and vampiric severity of the actual Les Legions Noires, they are carving out a very particular sound within the black metal universe, further establishing the US as a competitive birthing ground for the genre.  There's very little that sounds like this, and these two records are a high mark for USBM in general.

Philm - "Harmonic" (2012) [Ipecac]

I find it interesting that Dave Lombardo is the only member of Slayer to have sought out alternative modes of musical expression.  Kerry King is usually game to lay down a guitar solo on a contemporary's record, but Lombardo's the only one truly willing to step outside of his comfort zone and explore the world beyond thrash.  Maybe it's because he was kicked out after "Seasons in the Abyss" and his resultant connection to Slayer isn't as familial as Tom Araya's or Jeff Hanneman's, or maybe his time spent with Mike Patton and John Zorn opened him up to a ream of new possibilities and horizons that his regular band wasn't up for navigating.  There's no denying that his skills as a drummer have increased tenfold since working with Zorn; it seems Lombardo is the only member of Slayer still capable of playing anything pre-"World Painted Blood" at the proper hyperkinetic speed in a live setting, as well as the one with the most well-rounded musical approach.  His willingness to experiment (at least as defined by the contextual shadow of Slayer) has certainly colored the last two Slayer records in shades beyond grey and black, lending them a smattering of "what the fuck?" moments that seem as revelatory now as "Reign in Blood" did to me back in 1992 (I'm only 33, so my formative musical years took place a little past that record's release, though its impact certainly wasn't any less), so i'm inclined to greet Lombardo's newest band, Philm, with an intense curiosity.

"Harmonic" is a really interesting record.  The few teaser tracks that went up prior to the album's release only provided the most cursory glimpse of what this project was attempting; while still aggressive and possessed of an obvious hardcore punk aestheticism, Philm are nothing even remotely like Slayer, coming from an entirely different swarm of anger and seethe.  Across a sprawling fifteen tracks Philm delve into nuanced jazz regressionism and frigid, spacey psychedelia placed firmly within a template of "post" hardcore and vaguely King Crimson-style structure.  Lombardo seems to openly defy the type of drumming he brings to Slayer, even when the riffing of a given song demands it (as in "Mitch"), and instead leans hard into flashy but not unimpressive free inflection and temperance.  The entire record seems not of its time, recorded and released in a vacuum state where influence was merely the vestige of an idea.  There's a musicianship on display from all three players (Lombardo plus Gerry Nestler of Civil Defiance and session pro Pancho Tomaselli) implying a distinct sort of maximalism, one that stands in direct opposition to Slayer's incredibly minimalist interpretation of hardcore.  Several songs make use of pedal point guitar droning ("Vitriolize" and "Area") while others traffic in an almost ambient sort of bombast ("Harmonic"); the sum is a mastery of "less is more" philosophizing and an innate knowledge of how to use space, effects, and phrasing.  Philm becomes something vague and undefined but clearly assaulting.

The closest comparisons I can think of to Philm's sound are Justin Chancellor of Tool's incredibly undersung band Peach, Therapy?, and Germany's industrial cosmic psychonauts The Young Gods.  I can also hear echoes of Prong in Philm's stuttery staccato riffing and Nestler's vocals.  All four of those bands were working in opposition to what was "popular" within their chosen (or critically determined) genres; Philm brings that same antagonistic sensibility to "Harmonic."  This isn't music that really fits in with or belongs to a modern time, or maybe any time; instead it exists comfortably in a small undefined tableau where Larry Coryell jams in the milky stars with Praxis.  The abdication of thrash texture by Lombardo lends "Harmonic" a new sort of heaviness more illustrated by mood and atmosphere than riffs or tone (although Nestler's guitar work is stellar throughout, both beautifully clean and compressed to "Ride the Lightning" like levels of monolithicism depending on the song), and the expansiveness of the suite of songs as a whole, especially towards the back end, rewards repeated listenings.  I haven't heard anything quite like this in a long time.

The record isn't without its failures, though.  Closers "Mild" and "Meditation" both feature bland chromatic guitar lines that reek of the worst moments of 311 alongside some cheesy wah-work that would send Kirk Hammett into the bushes vomiting.  There's an overall reliance on obscure nostalgia that could be off-putting, and Nestler's lyrics sometime remind me of why Prong never really grabbed anything other than a niche audience within the metal community.  "Harmonic" is a somewhat arrogant record, understandable given its members' pedigrees (Tomaselli was bassist in Eric Burdon's WAR, for fuck's sake), but that arrogance could easily translate to condescension and an inflated self-importance.  The album is too long by far; in that sense Philm could have benefited from stealing one page from the Slayer playbook.

Overall "Harmonic" charts a landmark new course for one of metal's most revered figures.  The shortcomings of the album truly pale in comparison to the obscurity of influence and general individuality offered up by the band.  This record almost stands to eclipse Lombardo's work in Fantomas for me; any session drummer could have shredded their way through "The Director's Cut," but not every drummer could tap into the restraint/explosiveness necessary to evoke classic records like Peach's "Giving Birth to a Stone" and King Crimson's "Three of a Perfect Pair."  There's a unique voice here, and I sincerely hope Philm isn't just a one-off project.  Theirs is a sound that warrants deeper, more thorough examination and reflection.  Whatever's getting beamed into Nestler and Lombardo's heads is a transmission needing immediate translation.  While I wouldn't trade a new Slayer album for a new Philm album, Lombardo's most recent excursion is a worthwhile and totally engaging stopgap.

-Cory

Kevin Drumm - "The House Trilogy" (2012) [Self-Released]

Drone/noise overlord Kevin Drumm has been on a serious tear as of late, self-releasing oodles of new material in small handcrafted editions that highlight his frigid, destructive and intensely minimalist approach to sonic architecture.  Three of Drumm's most recent works comprise a loose trilogy of sorts, in that they were all recorded (ostensibly) in different rooms of his house; the result is an expansive and challenging series of recordings illustrating Drumm's various approaches to immersion, texture, and all-out noise assault.  Few artists working with electronics and tone have such a singular vision: Drumm's work easily echoes old masters like Merzbow and Masonna but maintains something uniquely individual within its incendiary eruption, a wisp of black metal ferocity that betrays its creator's deep interest in northern extremity.  Drumm's noise-sculpting is rooted in organic performance regardless of its instrumental inception, and these three albums all go beyond the simple processes of computer-generated tone abuse and manipulation.  The resultant trilogy is a portrait of one of modern drone's masters at his most restless and agitated, a tour through the hellish anxieties of isolationism and defeat.

I.  THE BACK ROOM

The trilogy opens with this violent exploration of analogue terror and synthesizer holocausting, five tracks of shriek and static crafted into crushing waves of disorienting, severely uncomfortable sine wave abuse.  Recalling and eclipsing the good majority of modern HNW recordings, "The Back Room" sees Drumm working off his own templates to erect a crumbling wall of diseased electronic detritus.  The harshness and unapproachability that defined classic Drumm albums like "Sheer Hellish Miasma" and "Impish Tyrant" returns here in a flurry of knob-twiddling and chaotic cord-patching, all fed through a wealth of delays and quick edits to create something sounding like an electrical storm in Tartarus.  Drumm also throws in some of the frequency difficulties he's been harnessing since his debut album, making "The Back Room" not only harsh in its sound but truly harsh to listen to.  Through a pair of headphones the music becomes intensely oppressive, like a cloudy vice wrapping itself around the outer cartography of your brain and injecting quick shots of hallucinatory venom into its surface.

This is a Drumm record free of any semblance of respite; gone are the lovely and saturated Radigue-like drones of "Imperial Distortion" and "Imperial Horizon," here replaced by a caustic and virtiolic desire to explore the outer regions of free-flowing electricity.  The ghost of Aburptum hangs heavy over "The Back Room," with its listless shifts and seemingly random sojourns into spasms of blackened reverbation and white noise vagrancy, but never once do you fail to hear the actual human hand organizing and building the audio.  Best to simply let the distortion wash over you and eviscerate as it will; these sounds flay the flesh and gouge the frontal lobe in a dizzying manner that leaves little beyond breathless awe in its wake.  This is Drumm in his most purely aggressive mode without the bombastic overloading of "SHM"; the intensity then becomes psychedelic rather than obliterating.  Transformative and evocative, rich in depth and texture, "The Back Room" is the necessary violent opening of the proverbial third eye.

 II.  THE KITCHEN


"The Kitchen" eschews all the hyperviolent absurdity of "The Back Room" and goes in a completely different direction.  Here Drumm employs an accordion run through a Big Muff and processes some of the results, emerging with a gorgeous metallized drone that recalls both the hypnogogic psychedelia of Birchville Cat Motel and Drumm's own 2000 recording "Comedy," a vicious slab of oozing accordion vomit that totally rattles speakers and minds.  "The Kitchen" is appropriately dreamy, drifty, and primal in its minimalism, scarring across the mythic nowhere at its own glacial pace. 

Opening on a rush of lulling haze, Drumm bleeds the accordion into total saturation mode, pushing it to its sonic limits.  The instrument rapidly approaches its meltdown point, fed through an assortment of delays and echoes until it becomes an endlessly recycled loop of melody, each note receding into the next.  The piece becomes magnificent in its elegiac grandeur, sorrow sloughing off its body like so many wasted tears.  Melancholia gives way to triumph which in turn becomes nostalghia, the stain of memory inflicted on patterns of distance and saturation.  Drumm's accordion becomes a vessel of feeling, slowly rolling across mounds of human experience and approximation.  Here the "heaviness" of some of Drumm's other recordings is referenced and his skill as a sculptor of tone becomes apparent: droning note fallout is shaped into massive swooning chords and the bitter sounds of regret, a severe and exhausting tour through the more depressive side of existentialism.  "The Kitchen" gets close to a vintage Mogwai-like aura of defeatism, each bloated note serving to advance a narrow ideology of confusion, dismay, and sadness.  The raw power of Drumm's approach on this album is truly something visionary, as he taps into the wealth of emotion and mood hinted at on "Imperial Distortion" but ultimately hidden by that piece's inherent reluctance; on "The Kitchen" that emotion pours forth like lava down a mountainside, threatening everything in its path with immolation.  There is truly no escape.

This is one of the definitive Kevin Drumm recordings, fusing the grace of his current drone works to the sheer and towering destructive power of his most abrasive noise assaults.  The use of the accordion is an interesting self-reference, but the ultimate power of the piece as a whole isn't diminished by any suggestion of ideas already explored; instead Drumm shapes the accordion's sounds into something beyond mere drone, a mesmerizing envelope of suffocating, claustrophobic sorrow closer in spirit to the gauzy washouts of Tim Hecker than the hypnotizing austerity of Pauline Oliveros.  Drumm has reached a high point with this album, a convergence of all of his ideas and influences into a flattening bed of intensity.  "The Kitchen" is a portrait of isolationism at its most yearning.

III.  THE WHOLE HOUSE


"The Whole House" closes out the trilogy in bizarre form, being both the most processed piece and the most distanced.  Comprised of two tracks, "The Whole House" finds Drumm working in both drone and cut-up/noise terrorist method to markedly polarizing results.  The initial track is the more droning of the pair and ultimately the more successful; here Drumm relies on virtually no editing and instead presents a bizarre batch of recordings that sound like they're coming from a significant distance, which they more than likely are.  The tones have a watery quality to them that makes me wonder if they weren't sourced from a washing machine, with a relentless churning and tumbling that becomes almost percussive in its squall.  As the piece progresses the churning becomes more hypnotic and mesmerizing, gradually approaching a level of saturation and depth akin to early Sunn 0))) recordings before it spasms out into a torrent of noise and jolting free electricity.

The second track jumps on that spasming and rides it into oblivion, showcasing Drumm's penchant for disarming, cacophonous edits and moments of alarming staccato silence.  This is pure noise eruption arranged for maximum disconcertedness, an assumed sputtering out of ideas that manifests itself as mere flirtations with static deviance and tonal impatience.  This section of "The Whole House" caters to earlier manifestations of Drumm's prepared guitar aestheticism despite little to no guitar as source; the jumpy nature of the piece erodes the free-flowing nature of the first section of the composition and gives way to a jittery bit of tension-generating electronics that aren't noise so much as they are itchy grievances.  Drumm is in control throughout, generating a wealth of audio that seeks to alienate and discomfort the listener as much as it can.  The palpable sense of distance realized in the first section comes to fruition here, recalling both the assaulting extremity of "The Back Room" as well as the immersive gravitational texture of "The Kitchen," arriving at a median that combines the two in way not wholly satisfying but notably intellectual.  "The Whole House" isn't an experience so much as it is an exercise in which Drumm makes the listener work for meaning; experimentation in the truest sense, freedom as expulsion and composition as spontaneous evolution.

Read separately, these three pieces represent a myriad approach to "computerized" music that ignores the rather stoic modality of standard ambiance in favor of an approach more brutally hands-on and wicked.  As a triptych they become fairly overwhelming, a testament to Kevin Drumm's inexhaustible skills as a composer and arranger as well as his penchant for audience antagonism.  Drumm is clearly comfortable with the uncomfortable, willing to go further into the unexplored than any of his contemporaries (and really, at this point, who the hell are they?).  The great emptiness becomes audible in his hands, and the sounds existing in the universe's bleak outer vestiges find an outlet in his laptop.  Despite any sort of label support, Kevin Drumm is releasing some of the most interesting and thought-provoking, as well as the loudest and most visceral, "electronic" music currently available.  All of his recordings stand as evidence of a metal ideology infiltrating the more refined methods of structure, and all of his albums reference a distinctly metallized view of the current musical microcosm.  Their considerable depth and weight more than marks them as worthy of exploration, but their irreverent approach to musicality marks them as masterpieces.

-Cory

Fushitsusha - "Hikari to Nazukeyo" (2012) [Heartfast Records]

The completely unexpected (but beyond welcome) return of Keiji Haino's dark star destruction unit Fushitsusha, resurrected with the assistance of original drummer Ikuro Takahashi (who also marked time in the equally obliterating Kousokuya) and bassist Mitsuru Nasuno (with whom Haino shreds in Seijaku.)  Haino has kept himself busy with all manner of music since putting Fushitsusha on indefinite hiatus in 2001, but his most recent recordings, most notably his trio outings with Jim O'Rourke and Oren Ambarchi, have focused on a return to the staggering simplicity of blundering, crushing rock and roll primitivism performed with reckless abandon, as though Haino were discovering himself all over again.  Little wonder then that he would revive the group he made his name with; legions of guitarists (myself included) worship at the altar he so casually but brutally erected in the early '90's, a testament to the ultimate nihilistic powers of the electric guitar when brandished by someone so attuned to the cosmos' nether pockets.  For all his experimentation, Keiji Haino is the very emblem of true sonic violence, caustic and extreme, barely held together by tendrils of mystery and a hazy aura of cool that never once threatens to overtake the awesome power of the music.  Haino channels darkness, and that darkness becomes a living entity, crawling and oozing its way into frontal lobe eradication.

"Hikari to Nazukeyo" isn't a return to peak form as much as it is a return to peak attitude.  It's incredibly aggressive-Haino's vocal histrionics throughout are some of the more intense he's delivered in his lengthy career-but it's also remarkably tempered and calculated, given over more to the idea of structure than almost any Fushitsusha recording preceding it.  There are actual songs here, influenced as much by new wave impressionism and krautrock numbing theatrics as it is Haino's beloved delta blues by way of Blue Cheer.  The sounds here are more vital, visceral, and urgent than anything Haino's laid down in the past decade.  That he blows it out of the water in a mere 35 minutes without sacrificing any of the ragged rock glory is fucking insane to me.  Fushitsusha is a band built on excess; here it's streamlined, maybe even mainlined, into a virulent feed of rock bloodletting that constantly reignites itself with each mangled note.  And there are plenty of them throughout.

The highlight of any Fushitsusha record is Haino's severe and particular brand of guitar holocaust, and "Hikari to Nazukeyo" delivers in spades;  most of the tracks here revolve around Haino's frenzied guitar mangle.  The obvious peak, as well as the most "classic" sounding jam here is "Chuushin no Ketsui I," an excursion into pure molasses lightning sludge, an inferno of feedback shriek and amplifier gurgle filtered through stuttering bass and an incessant staccato drum.  Haino's guitar is in the grave and buried, clawing away at mounds of dirt to reach the caustic night sky.  Bitterness rages and danger ignites on its own fumes, a dirge to hell that considers the sky the equal of the earth.  "Todomi Yari Hou (Zenkaku Supesu 2)" continues along those same hellish lines, adding Haino's black-metal tinged vocal (vokill?) to the mix for ultimate audio meltdown.  It's the very essence of metal distilled into four simple punishing minutes, the epitome of "heavy" without any of the pretense, and totally free of any constraint.  "Chuushin no Ketsui II" sees Haino in a more classic "shred" mindset, with a slaughter of notes being sent to the great musical beyond in a fiery torrent of careless and wanton obliteration; the flurry of distorted bass notes that closes the track (and the record) out almost seems relief after Haino's towering conflagration.

The magic of the record lies in the curveballs.  Haino is nothing if not unpredictable, and for all its black hole aestheticism, "Nikari to Nazukeyo" is lush with iconoclastic departures from the formula.  Opener "Mada Hikato Nazukerarenai Mono" eschews guitar completely in favor of grinding yet melodic bass rumble, allowing Fushitsusha to approach an approximation of melody and form not yet harnessed.  It's a surprise to say the least, and points to the eclecticism that Haino so casually summons up when the mood strikes (this is also one of the few Fushitsusha albums that doesn't feature artwork done entirely in black and white, perhaps indicative of its multifaceted ambitions); all of that eclecticism here becomes a rainbow prism of expression, a technicolor explosion of passion and authority.  "Ore no Wake Mae" features actual riffing within the chaos, confused and bludgeoning and chromatic but nothing short of blunt.  "(Shire Ru) Toiukoto" is some sort of devolved lounge song, jazz let free to lord over the Slayerized constructs of elevator hell.  Haino goes even further in his outre reference and evokes Frank Zappa in the gorgeous atonal but hypermelodic soloing found in "Aredakeha," recalling Zappa's live improv'd stylizations rife with gorgeous clean guitar lines and plucky tone; like Zappa, Haino exerts total control over the proceedings at hand but lets the musicians wander where they may within a certain definition.  Psychedelia gives way to frigidity and a sort of oversaturation void of welcome; despondence retreats into the foul.  Haino's breakthrough is attained via noise and horror.  As a whole "Nikari to Nazukeyo" recalls Haino's work with his death folk/rock band Aihiyo more than anything under the Fushitsusha moniker; there's a sort of spiritual blackness here that seems more birthed from traditional forms and outdated modes of rock extravagance than the apocalyptic hollowness of Fushitsusha proper.  But the mission remains unchanged: annihilation through provocation and majesty by way of deathly grandeur.

Seeing Haino live at the Walker Art Center several years ago was one of the highlights of my life as a musician.  I'd rarely seen anything so unabashedly antagonistic towards the audience (with the exception of the Melvins on their "2 X 4" tour) and it cemented my fervent belief in volume as a means to expression as well as aesthetic.  Haino here confirms that my adulations were not misplaced; the sheer intensity present throughout "Hikari to Nazukeyo," despite its brevity in comparison to other Fushitsusha recordings, should be more than enough to satisfy those searching for an antisocial musical outlet.  This is punishment wrapped around the vestiges of beauty, blanketed in distance and abysmal anger.  Few can muster up the vitriol in their youth that Haino does at 60; Fushitsusha to me are more metal than any band in existence.  They work off of the sound of freedom and tap into the blind ether of rebellion, emerging with music that comes to define "rock and roll."  Purity of expression fuses to the monolithic belief in a very narrow ideal born of a far-reaching love of music as is.  Fushitsusha equals the transcendent.  This is a record that goes way beyond, and it will reward your willingness to follow it into the nothing it constantly creates before itself.  I know it's early into 2012, but this is another one of my contenders for record of the year.  If you have any interest in extreme music, or just music in general, you need to hear this.  It will both destroy and transform.  Highest possible recommendation.

-Cory

Valley of Fear - "S/T" (2012) [Legion Blotan]

Holy shit.  Forgive the terrible cover scan, but after hearing this I knew I had to write about it immediately.  Valley of Fear is a devastating new project consisting of Justin Broadrick, Matthew Bower, and Samantha Davies that trips to the very end of frigid psychedelia, a numbing sojourn to the emptiest places of human experience.  Sounding as much from the void as anything Matthew Bower has touched, Valley of Fear refines and streamlines the black metal aestheticism he's been flirting with across the last several Skullflower records and harnesses the wilds of pure electricity into a choking sonic blackness.  To me, this record is a more perfect summation of black metal than any orthodox recording could ever hope to be-the meeting place between these three (or, more precisely, two, since Bower and Davies make up BM droning wasteoids Voltigeurs) is a windswept landscape of utter nullification made physical and prescient-and exemplifies the ultimate power of reach capable with guitar deconstructionism.

Matthew Bower is easily one of my favorite musicians on the planet.  Everything he does bears a rotted mark of abuse and fecundity as well as a yearning for transcendence.  Few modern guitarists have so thoroughly explored the outer limits of the instrument's capabilities, scratching at the ceiling of heaven whilst being torn asunder by the weeping winds of hell.  Bower shreds, but not in any classically musical sense.  His mastery and expressionism comes in the form of expansion, a willingness to reach beyond and go deeper.  There's a sense that the sounds are summoned and felt rather than played, lending a ritualistic approach to all of Bower's various projects.  Bower's universe is one of mistakes and failures made into the raw stuff of actuality, where possibilities become regurgitations born into hazed-out microcosmic universes of hollowed out nothingness.  Matthew Bower is a specter and his music is the endless purgatorical mania that precedes him.  Valley of Fear is that purgatory given propulsion and definition, the blunt swarm of vacuity honed to the glinting steel of menace.

Almost all of that shaping is owed to the not insignificant contributions of Justin Broadrick, here stepping away from the comfort zone of Jesu into a musical pasture much more evocative of his actual interests and capabilities.  While the overall sound of Valley of Fear is fairly bludgeoning when weighed against the formless, treble-cutting worlds of Skullflower's output, Broadrick is actually retreating deeply into minimalism here.  Broadrick's programmed drums are simplistic, almost martial, and bear the distinct mark of Godflesh's industrialized flatlining, closer to the washed out goop of his recent project Grey Machine or his decades-old forays into techno, than the lush, immersive, melodic textures of Jesu.  The negative space of Final can be heard here as well, as Broadrick cloaks Valley of Fear in an atmosphere of bitter, haunted nostalghia and reflection.  This plays in to Bower's take on black metal as the sound of human wretchedness and irreversible failure, a sum total of weakness, rage, and regret.  This is perhaps some of the greyest music ever put to tape.

Most impressive, though, is the hive mind of psychedelia conjured by the three.  Bower, Davies, and Broadrick all play guitar here and the resultant din is a megalomaniacal swarm of indulgent soloing and crushing discordance.  Broadrick in particular embraces the idea of implosion, giving in to a relentlessly obvious concept of "heavy" without sacrificing the callous intellectualism of the project as a whole.  As Voltigeurs, Davies and Bower embrace a sexualized aura of violence that relies heavily on blunt excess, and Broadrick taps into that in his playing on the record.  His palm-muted dirging reaches something of an apex here, for me eclipsing anything he did under the Godflesh moniker.  I might take some shit for that, but I truly believe the presence of Bower and Davies has opened Broadrick up to the majestic grandiosity of regressive excess.  Bower has always advanced a "maximalist minimalism" mantra throughout his work and Broadrick gravitates towards it beautifully, wantonly, as though realizing that the sound of Bower's collapsing psychedelic negativity is what Godflesh was striving for all along.  With the pretense of "metal" removed from the equation, the music becomes something larger and more frightening, more inexplicable and meandering, than the confines of commercial structure could ever allow.  All three players claw at the stars on this one, their guitars winding and screaming in a desperate bid for the ends of the known.  This is pure mystery woven into sound, the utter unknowability of existence transformed into something essential and visceral.  Immediacy wed to the forlorn.

Valley of Fear documents a landmark meeting between two of the most important musical minds of brain-frying "metal" of the last thirty years and is simply not to be missed.  This record is absolutely everything I could have hoped for, bluntly wedged into a scant thirty minutes that feels like thirty lifetimes.  Placing this within any context or genre seems far too limiting, despite the record's obvious homages to black metal, as well as Broadrick and Bower's shared industrial past.  Legion Blotan (and its parent label, Turgid Animal) have been quietly releasing some of the most wicked, excessive, and raw BM-connected recordings currently available, and this monumental recording is no exception.  For me, this sort of music is more powerful and arresting than almost anything else currently available, and it receives my highest possible recommendation.  It's a high mark for the more extreme side of psychedelia as well as a defining moment in the works of both Matthew Bower and Justin Broadrick, and it deserves the full attention of anyone even remotely concerned with the idea of transcendence through music.  A record of the year contender for me.  Just masterful.

-Cory

Glass Coffin - "Remnants of a Cold Dead World" (2012) [Crucial Blaze]

Crucial Blast's art-oriented sub-label Crucial Blaze churns out another highly impressive release in the form of Glass Coffin's regressive black metal filth pool "Remnants of a Cold Dead World," as primal a piece of underground BM sludge you're likely to hear this side of 1992.  Taking almost all of their cues from Mayhem garage demos and Darkthrone rehearsals, Glass Coffin play a simplistic, devolved style of black metal that owes more to the rebellious attitude behind the original wave than it does the actual sound.  At times reminiscent of black metal forefathers Bathory or Hellhammer, Glass Coffin exist in a purely encapsulated mode of expression, one where musicianship slits the throat of musicality and leaves a bloodied, shredded corpse.

There's a distinctly noisy edge to "Remnants," not surprising given that the sole instrumentalist, JL, performs as one half of ambient sludge droners Swamp Horse, but here the focus is on trebled-out severity rather than suffocating pillows of marsh waste and fecund tone baths.  Everything is played in a reckless, almost-haphazard manner, with each instrument seeming to stumble over the others in a race towards the end of every song.  Bass is virtually nonexistent, given over to warbly, fuzzed out skronk guitar and crude (but effective) drumming not unlike the early faerical primitivism of Nuit Noire.  JL's vocals are a buzzing rasp of vitriol, fragile electricity buried under musky dumps of mud and soil.  Swathes of melody surface here and there, such as the chorus riff on "Unholy Ritual" or the eerie intro piece "Soul of Iron and Ice," but mostly Glass Coffin revels in the blinding chromaticism of black metal's forebears, proudly waving the flag of bedroom isolationism without any of the suicidal pretense.  This is BM that derives as much from Slayer as it does from Fenriz; listen to the lightning riffing on "We Bleed the Blood of Hate" or "With Vacant Eyes, I Kill Again" and try to find yourself not transported back to the "Hell Awaits" era of trill-heavy fret abuse.

Normally the sort of regressive tendency displayed by a band like Glass Coffin is complicated by the specter of poor musicianship; too often "primitive" means "played like shit" without regards to any sort of actual musical quality.  Intent is passed off as legitimacy.  Glass Coffin eschews that, never once giving the impression that the music is half-assed or impugned by a lack of talent.  "Remnants of a Cold Dead World" is conceptualized and performed to achieve a very specific end; wherein the overall sound of the record comments on the influences and thematics behind it.  This is black metal beamed out of the tape trading days; one look through the gorgeous zine of artwork (all by JL himself) accompanying the release betrays the ideas at work.  Ghouls, zombies, revivification, and the sweet stench of violent death all hold court.  Not unlike the modern death metal revival defined by bands like Encoffination and Vastum, Glass Coffin's approach to black metal is rooted in classicism and reverence, an evocation of a very narrow, specialized sound synonymous with a very particular era.  Listening to this makes me feel like I'm 17 again, digging "Deathcrush" out of a record bin for the very first time and feeling like I'm holding the key to something greater in my hands.  Glass Coffin works a dark magic with a dedicated potency and an intimate knowledge of the necessary components.

"Remnants of a Cold Dead World" is 31 minutes of bloody pentagrams, sparkling stars, and glinting knives, the sort of backwoods ritualism found in the music of contemporaries like Tgoltjar and One Master (with whom Glass Coffin recorded a split) without any of the retreats into brain-frying psychedelia or elegiac elegance.  This is merely crude, simple, but devilishly effective black metal played in honor of the old masters, implying a mist of Satanism and a disgust with modernity.  This record glorifies retreat and regression, a tromp through the nightwoods of metal history.  Crucial Blaze has unearthed a gem here and given it a luxurious treatment, with packaging, artworks, and extras that seem on par with anything boutique label.  "Remnants of a Cold Dead World" is limited to 200 hand-numbered copies, available from Crucial Blast.  File this one next to Horna, Sargeist and the like and raise the horns in reverence of the night.  Black magic is upon us.

-Cory

Live Review: AUTOPSY, CIANIDE, BONES, CARDIAC ARREST, AND REIGN INFERNO at Reggie's Rock Club - May 5th, 2012

It's been far too long since I'd been to a death metal show. Come to think of it, the last death metal concert I consciously saw, aside from Opeth, who don't count, was Necrophagist/Cannibal Corpse/Dying Fetus way back in 2006. Man, it really had been a while, but, luckily, my senses kicked in when I saw how unbelievably incredible this show's live lineup was. I mean, Chicago heavyweights Bones and Cardiac Arrest already make a fun show, but when you add old school death/doom masters Cianide, things start to get interesting...then comes Autopsy. Honestly, Eric Cutler could burp into a microphone for an hour and I'm sure the venue would bear the same amount of damage it would receive if Autopsy had actually played (which they did. Oh, they did.). I believe Cardiac Arrest frontman Adam Scott put it perfectly when he said, "If you told me fifteen years ago that my band would open for Autopsy, I'd call you a fucking liar." It was almost too good to be true, I mean, it's a rather rare occurrence when such a solid death metal lineup comes to Chicago. Something always has to fuck it up. Always. I mean, this is Chicago. I love you, Chicago, but, goddammit, our history with shows hasn't been the greatest.

Set reviews and videos after the jump.

Horseback - "Half Blood" (2012) [Relapse Records]

Though musician Jenks Miller lives out towards the East coast, he sure knows a thing or two about "out West." Covering more stylistic ground than most are afraid to even touch with his solo project Horseback, Miller's stylistic nods to composer Ennio Morricone and Americana enthusiast Neil Young are as tasteful and refreshing as they are unique and solely his. Even with the drone effort Impale Golden Horn and his noisy black metal affairs Forbidden Planet, his split 7" with fellow progressives Pyramids, and the Mlih Ihvh EP, though the ideas are much more buried, the distinct "spaghetti Western" influence remains the same. The idea of celebrating Americana as a music style in metallic form in a time of political unrest and a general distaste for the country in "modern" (read as: post-2000 experimental stuff) seemed more like a dream than reality to those of us who truly appreciate Ennio Morricone's portrayal of the American West in the Sergio Leone trilogy, yet Miller's laid back approach to extreme metal's various forms, save a few, has made Horseback one of metal's most promising "new" acts.

With Half Blood, Horseback's newest full-length since 2010's limited Forbidden Planet, we see Miller furthering his love of neo-Americana, bringing in further influence from his project's other sonic incarnations, as well as a heavier dose of spaced-out krautrock. Yes, as the title implies, Half Blood manifests itself as a kaleidoscopic view of Horseback as a whole. While Miller's iconic, sleepy classic rock groove serves as the album's centerpiece, with slow-burners "Mithras," "Ahriman," and "Arjuna" basing themselves around headbobbing, singular grooves, Miller slowly begins to incorporate a wider spectrum of sounds as the album progresses. Near Half Blood's middle lies "Inheritance (The Changeling)," which acts as a sort of game-changer and sets the tone for the second half of the album. Based in a quiet, growing organ drone drone, this "changeling" puts Miller's signature blackish, distorted vocals in new light, often left unseen by fans of this sort of music: power electronics, albeit without the hateful lyrical content. Although noisy and a bit of a departure for a Horseback "doom" album, as opposed to a noise, drone, or black metal release (newcomers will slowly learn of Horseback's many, Brahmanic faces), layers of chiming piano work their way in, turning "Inheritance" into the mutant child of Ravi Shankar's backing band and Dom Fernow's quieter moments in Prurient. "Arjuna" follows suit with some cleaner guitar and bass work, though maybe just in comparison with the previous track, as well as the first inclusion of clean vocals on a more metal Horseback album (if you recall, Miller's clean voice was heard on Impale Golden Horn's "Blood Fountain"). Closing the album is the twenty-two minute Hallucigenia triptych, whose droning, krauty atmosphere is similar in scope to The Inivisible Mountain's "Hatecloud Dissolving Into Nothing," or even the first track from New Dominions, his collaboration with drone masters Locrian, though with much more concrete sections which one can follow. Emerging as a quiet, noisy drone with meandering guitars and Miller's quiet rasp, Hallucigenia slowly morphs into an Amon Duul II-like krautrock masterpiece, rife with gorgeous layers of organ and guitar drones.

Thematically, Half Blood deals with various ancient mythological and religious figures. Album openers "Mithras" and "Ahriman" are named for the dichotomous gods worshiped in Zoroastrianism, Mithras, who is depicted in Denis Forkas Kostromitin's outstanding artwork, acting as the god of light and positivity and Ahriman his darker counterpart. "Arjuna" is named for an ancient Hindu warrior-archer whose name is synonymous with "silver," "bright," "shining," or "white." Most of you might know Arjuna by his more popular name, Vishnu. The Hallucigenia triptych is dedicated to the works of Hermes Trismegistus, whose Emerald Tablet, which is referenced in Hallucigenia III, supposedly revealed the secrets of alchemy. Perhaps not intentional, but with Mithraism's initial competition with Christianity, Half Blood's sound-incorporating progression takes on a bit of an allegorical stance. As one may recall, Christianity has been known to incorporate different elements of other religions as a means of converting conquered locals. The concept of a positive deity ("God") and a negative being ("Satan/Lucifer/Beelzebub") is based on Zoroastrianism's Mithras and Ahriman. Karma, Hinduism's law of good deeds garnishing positive consequences and vice versa, manifests itself in Christianity as a positive, pious lifestyle guaranteeing oneself a spot in heaven and, again, vice versa for negativity and a denial of Christianity's god. Again, perhaps this is unintentional of Mr. Miller and could very well be a product of overspecialization, but I feel that Half Blood acts almost as an allegorical mirror to Christianity's "inheritance" (see what I did there?) of Eastern religious philosophy over the ages.

With previous releases seemingly polarized within their own genres of black metal, noise, drone, and krautrock-y doom metal, Half Blood shows itself as Horseback's most ambitious release, combining just about every previously recorded angle Horseback has taken. Jenks Miller's incredible fusion of all these styles into an accessible, easy-to-digest release like Half Blood is the sign of both a fantastic and well-studied musician. Half Blood's focused-yet-expansive scope will undoubtedly find its way onto many a "Best of 2012" list. Available for pre-order now from Relapse Records. Don't miss out on one of the best albums 2012 has to offer.

-Jon

lovesliescrushing - "Shiny Tiny Stars" (2012) [Handmade Birds Records]

Over the past twenty-one years, Scott Cortez has proven himself to be the Western hemisphere's answer to Kevin Shields and Neil Halstead, crafting at times poppy, but always ethereal guitar constellations with an arsenal of effects pedals and a keen ear for sound sculpture with his projects lovesliescrushing and Astrobrite. With lovesliescrushing, Cortez teams up with vocalist Melissa Arpin-Duimstra and arms himself with chopsticks, violin bows, forks, knives, vibrators (take that, Dave Navarro!), and any other object he deems necessary to create a perfect, astral atmosphere. Though Cortez's approach and shifting sound can be deemed similar to guitarist Kevin Shields's extreme layering with My Bloody Valentine, lovesliescrushing's 1994 debut, bloweyelashwish, showed an abstraction in the then-young genre, foregoing the upbeat pop song for rich ambiance and dreamy textures. With a handful of limited releases and seven full-length albums to their name, Cortez and Arpin-Duimstra "return" with their latest offering, Shiny Tiny Stars.

I put "return" in quotes because, well, this technically isn't a new lovesliescrushing album. Deemed their "lost first album," Shiny Tiny Stars features some of Cortez and Arpin-Duimstra's earliest collaborations, dating all the way back to the band's first year of existence. Why wait so long? Honestly, I'm not sure (I'll be asking Scott about it soon), but this material needed to see the light of day. For diehard fans expecting the grating, distorted euphoria of "babysbreath" and "Glimmer," a surprise is definitely in store. Undoubtedly Cortez's most mellow work, the clean, shimmering sounds of Shiny Tiny Stars sounds more like a sonic predecessor to Liz Harris's Grouper fourteen years before the fact rather than the noisepop syrup they pioneered a mere three years later. In the pre-distortion pedal era, lovesliescrushing was a different kind of calm. Rather than a neon-bright mushrooms and cough syrup daze, Cortez's guitars melded into soft wisps of cloud pillows while Arpin-Duimstra sang the most distant of quaalude lullabies. It's damn near sonic perfection, and, in my current state of sleepiness, it's proving very difficult to write about such a wonderfully relaxing album. I can feel my heartbeat begin to slow as my eyes become heavy with every new, magnificent volume swell and vocal glissando. This is the kind of music which has a legitimate, physical effect on you, and the fact that Cortez and Arpin were able to achieve such sonic beauty at a young age (I believe Cortez was around nineteen at the beginning of the Shiny Tiny Stars sessions) is a commendable feat. Let the sepulchral sounds of lovesliescrushing enfold you.

It is a rare opportunity to catch such an in-depth glimpse at the formative works of such quiet, influential musicians as Scott Cortez and Melissa Arpin-Duimstra. With the lovesliescrushing name already as important as it is in its own circles, the canonical nature of Shiny Tiny Stars makes it one of the most important releases you can own. Though it is quite different from its consequential "successors," the quiet sounds on Shiny Tiny Stars are merely another face of lovesliescrushing, a step on their path to immortality. This is true, sleepy beauty in sound form. Expect more new material from lovesliescrushing later this year. Shiny Tiny Stars will begin shipping within the next few days from Handmade Birds.

-Jon

Gilead Media Music Festival Day 2 Recap

Before anyone asks: yes, I missed Day 1. I had school stuff to do. That happens sometimes. Also no pictures or video from me.




Oshkosh is an interesting place. Aside from lying just north of the fun-to-say-in-a-Minnesota-accent Fond du Lac, one really wouldn't think of it as the prime metal festival location. Come to think of it, the only time I've seen Wisconsin portrayed in a positive light when it comes to metal was when I saw Wormsblood perform at the Matchitehew Assembly back in 2009 - each member draped their amplifier with a "Visit Scenic Wisconsin" flag, and I'm pretty sure frontman Clay Ruby was either wearing a cat shirt or something Wisconsin tourism related, but I digress. With roads plastered with "ABORTION KILLS CHILDREN, WHO WILL PAY YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY?," "JESUS DIED FOR YOUR SINS," and, my personal favorite, "SUPPORT GOVERNOR SCOTT WALKER, SUPPORT FOR MORE THAN THE PRIVILEGED FEW" signs, the idea that I was going to be attending a festival studded with some rather politically progressive bands was an ever growing source of humor. How would the small city of Oshkosh handle so many black-clad, smelly metalheads? Would we get the whole "Demon, I cast thee out!" treatment I once received in Texas? Only time would tell, and, evidently, time was not on my side. As it turns out, Oshkosh's main highway drag, Route 41, was under some excruciatingly painful road construction, and my GPS didn't seem to understand that the exit leading to the La Quinta was closed, leading to many a circle being turned and forehead veins so disgustingly throbbing they would make a drunk James "The Ragin' Cajun" Carville blush.

After checking in to the hotel and grabbing some lunch at a neat little coffee house with some fellow music nerds, I found myself at the Electric Lounge and Lanes. Maybe I'm used to the standard "the bar is the same room as the venue" sort of layout, but this place was rather..interesting. With multiple bars, a ballroom on each floor, and a few bowling lanes in the basement, The Electric Lounge proved itself to be more of a playground than a venue. A metal fest has been going on here since yesterday? Why not? The (extremely cheap!) beer was flowing and I was in the presence of many a friend from all over the country, so venue setup was a complete non-issue.

Pacific Northwest solo entity Mania opened the second day of the fest with one of the most unique black metal live performances I've ever witnessed. Now, I'd heard many a story about main man Nate Myers's, who also runs the Eternal Warfare label, legendary "live drums only" show, but that just seemed like a big ol' absurdity to me. Most black metal bands have everything but live drums, so a sole drum set and a laptop hooked up to a small arsenal of amplifiers was going to be interesting at the very least. Luckily, as a weathered Mania fan, I was fully prepared for Myers's bizarre approach to raw black metal, complete with programmed bass and strange, angular guitar tonalities. What's not to like? It's cold, somewhat orthodox, and definitely ripping. As novel as the whole "drum kit only" live approach is, Myers definitely pulled it off.

I feel bad for missing Baby Boy's set, but, I mean, everyone was there, so I ended up sitting outside with fellow blogster, Blackened Slugs's Nick Horrigan, and other buddies, soaking up the slightly overcast sun and winding down from the rather impressive Mania set. Cue a few more beers (with Old Rasputin at $3.50 a bottle, I might consider moving up to Oshkosh) and I was ready to head back inside to catch the second half of a rather rare Sleepwalker live appearance.

For those of you who hadn't grabbed the Sleepwalker demo from Aesop Dekker's Cosmic Hearse blog, the band's unique, raw approach to the whole "post-black metal" thing might not have sounded so great on tape, but they pulled it off rather nicely live. Powerful, noisy, and perhaps a bit on the sloppy side, these guys could have very well done some mean Rusted Shut covers if they dropped the harsh vocals.

Sci-fi overlord Philip K. Dick-obsessed grindcore band A Scanner Darkly's reunion set was up next, featuring Gilead Media's own Adam Bartlett on voice. I had actually never heard of this band before they were announced as part of the Fest, but I figured I'd stick around and support the guy who put it all together, and it was pretty neat. I was rather surprised to see a grindcore band placed on the more doom-oriented day, but the droning/doomy elements which began to manifest over the course of their set proved their worth alongside their heavier festmates. Oh yeah, Adam did a pretty stellar job on vocals, too, and I hear he's going to continue doing stuff with them. Neato.

After reviewing their last album, Clandestine Abuse, I'd been absolutely dying to see Wisconsin (now) 4-piece Northless. Naturally, I was expecting something heavy, but these guys definitely exceeded my expectations. A pummeling storm of bottom-heavy anxiety and some surprisingly technical guitar work (somehow that slipped right by me on the record), these Wisconsinites definitely performed a great show. Support Northless, and be on the lookout for a nice 10" split with Light Bearer on Halo of Flies Records later this year.

With their latest EP, Gilead Media's I Am Legion, fresh in my head, I was looking forward to headbanging, and, at times, humming, along to the riff fest which was Mutilation Rites. Maybe I missed something when I reviewed I Am Legion, or maybe I just have a subconscious desire to disagree with anything Brandon Stosuy says, but, I must concede, these guys are rather thrashy. Not Sodom or Megadeth thrashy, but there's definitely enough jean vest to go around. With some assistance from a good buddy I managed to swing my way up front for this set, where I managed to stay for the next act...

The Body. Holy crap, The Body. I'd seen Chip and Lee do their thing a few years ago (there's a funny story surrounding that show, but I'm already talking too much), so I was fully aware of the potential/definite repercussions by standing directly in front of Chip King's fortified wall of amplifiers, but, goddammit, this is The Body we're talking about, and, man, were they heavy. Trudging through some familiar tunes off of All The Waters, as well as a nice selection of back catalog material, The Body's live act could be likened to grinding boulders to a fine dust, or perhaps pouring a nice mix of drano and glass shards in your ear. Immense.

Due to a desire for more liquids and a respite from ear fatigue, I missed False's set, though from what I could hear downstairs, they did a nice job. I hear they're doing a split with Barghest sometime this year.

Speaking of Barghest, these Louisianans (Louisianites?) absolutely stole the show (and not just because their singer Dallas writes for us). Armed with a new drummer and some heavier new material, this four-piece's all-treble attack was absolutely ferocious. Absolutely pissed off and mesmerizing, Barghest ripped through some favorites from their full-length (I was especially happy to hear "Mourning"), as well as two new tracks - a retooled version of "Shifting Sands" and a heavy, almost Black Witchery-esque black/death metal song - which will be featured on their split with False later this year. Spotlight? Definitely Dallas's voice. I remember mentioning its wet, throaty sound when I reviewed their album, but, man, he sounds absolutely disgusting in person; almost akin to Det Som Engang Var era Varg. Here's hoping Barghest chooses to play around some more, 'cause more people need to see these guys in action.

Thou's set has been a source of inner turmoil. I absolutely, absolutely adore their first two albums, and the fact that they were going to play Tyrant all the way through was like a dream, but I guess I didn't really take all the standing I had done that day into consideration. Aside from the always awesome "Fucking Chained to the Bottom of the Ocean," I hate to say it, but I found myself kind of bored. Aside from a few witty jokes, frontman Brian Funck's stage banter was a little annoying, too. Maybe I was tired, but I ended up heading downstairs about five songs into their set. I legitimately wondered if I didn't like Thou anymore, but, upon coming home, I found I enjoyed the new song on their split with Hell, so I'm going to chalk this one up to 1) dehydration, 2) hunger, and 3) sore ankles. Maybe next time, Thou. I still love you.

Afterwards we all (most of us, at least) took over the Varsity Club in downtown Oshkosh, whose doorway was emblazoned with rather lovely set of dress code rules which delicately implied "NO BLACKS." Isn't Wisconsin great? Their chef certainly loved us. I hope Adam chooses to put on another fest next year, cause, even though I was only in attendance for half the fest, I had way too much fun with all my "bros" and a few "broettes."

-Jon