MAMMOTH SEED (S/T EP)

  The take could be once the EP is viewed through a rose-tinted kaleidoscope, the trippy fluidness initiates the road to psychedelia. On a sunny day across the plains, in a wagon.

  London Train Woman Blues is caught in the usual Rock n Roll macho serenade with interesting blues-inspired leads and a bass somewhere between audible and background. It ends in typical Rock n Roll fashion; receding vibrato.

  The heaviest track -- and longest track; Hypopsychedelicatessen -- starts with bass followed by a down-tuned riff that starts picking pace as the song progresses. Moments of psychedelia can be heard at the start and at the end. Here I'll take the hypo- for under (an influence of psychedelic... the rest is quite unfathomable).

  Dartless -- " ... at the local where we perform. Someone is still up for the Bull's Eye in the meanwhile ... ". Nice skit. Man.

  Don't Take Me There. This is what they overwhelm the patrons with. And fuck, it's the catchiest of all. Somehow it feels transgressing into some post-rock.

  Bourbon Stains is a track with a trippy feel and a dance-able beat! It is also heavy. Fuck! Canadians with American stains.

 The spirit of Rock n Roll.

  4/5

THIS WAS A METAL PRAIRIE

 The wind is soaring swiftly. Coursing the land, coasting with serpentine slither. One that neither touches but on its sheer gliding weight the ears and leafs sway mono-directionally -- a sudden encompassing wave of roaring gust. But if they really do touch; one a breeze caressing the stalks and hairs as the airs fork between strands still merging from the splits; nobody sees it. Yet visibly alluring the unfolding effects.

  Until spirits from the netherworld are unleashed. An inanimate mosaic intertwined to protrusions of a lively spine. The heart of the spiraling machine. Firmly as put together by the seeds it sowed, and the fruits it reaped. The catch-22 it helped horn.

  Sometimes a hurricane emerges. Enough energy has been piled up. The howling void is whirling, pulling, tugging vulnerable flames. Building the ultimate fire and the belly finally gets tugged hard enough to release a sonic outburst. Gorging trenches and hellholes, upturning sods. Mangling the hay and the rusted needles.

  ...

  Bordering the north a fiord; with increased trudge, snow is no longer a sighting. First it's the subzero soils. Pebbles that see sun zero. Collecting patches and tracts until white engulfs all. The pines get lonelier and submit to dispersing. The sorrow is pictured by still monochrome clouds on fluid recurring crests, at-times-mist-engulfed lakes. The difference grays out with increased frost.

  Anchors of the steadfast ship spread the clawed tentacles into the deep reaches of the sea. Where years ago Viking ships rocked and pierced waves onwards to battlefronts. Leviathans became the guardians. How so! These ones were means of taming the wild. The Titan of them all. The demigod. It is not a myth.

  Further down draws warmth. Windy plains and buttes eroded to smoothness. Partly dustless at the plateaus with the flour sand particles pulled to the mire. Heavy as palm boughs sluggishly descending into the oasis. On still days, the smoke gets too thick to rise efficiently! The red vast-lands espouses its creatures come nightfall. This is not Mars.

  And suddenly the occult starts bending; once nightlife rears up. Astrology starts coalescing starlit auras with celestial measure. The secrets of the stars blending forth into the mystery. Onwards into the cosmos!

WITCH VOMIT (WEBS OF HORROR)

  Death Metal. DEATH METAL. D E A T H  M E T A L!!

  Denounce everything and embrace the certainty, finality and ultimacy of death. What afterlife? Didn't the doom aspects unleash the hold-backs to finally visit that sardonic local witch? Retribution by gusto? Irretrievable.

  Pure swarthy, filthy evil puked from the very crypts, waiting to devour every awaiting soul and drag them to the life-deficient pits. Into the sea of burgeoning sludge.

  Bludgeoning brutality is merely an extension; to decimate the still surviving soldier(s). Life is only black and white as woven by gossamers and protruding icicles forged against the nocturnal realm.

  Proceed with conception.

  4.5/5

NECROBLATION (STAB YOUR SELF)

  

  On the ever progressive metal landscape, either a band greatly brings forth the traditional sounds of sub/genres or they are converging genres uncombinable—maybe deemed polar before. The latter is almost a filled gap as many a modern band is multi-faceted—even if a slight hint of their influences, with its pros and cons.

  Necroblation hails from the amalgamating side of metal. This is a Grind-peppered Thrash band with equal measure Death Metal—whose riffs at times evoke Woe Of Tyrants, given that both are thrash-riffing oriented. Not that it matters, but the two also happen to share religious stance.

  As a part grind machine, there are expectations of a fast-paced songwriting approach. Regardless of the excellent instances of ferocious display of energy, it is an aspect that the band does not completely fulfil. The furthest it goes to full grind is on Uncontrolled Rage. An apt title whose missive could be regarded as the album's breather; gutted between longer tracks.

  A portmanteau of "Necro" and "Oblation" that provides the bands name significantly unravels well with the sophomore's sleeve art—a proclamation of finally finding and coming to terms with their identity. Parallelly providing an altar at which fuzzily and not-so-clean production—that succeeds in laying a fantastic atmosphere—portrays the sonic proliferations at hand. Notably, the mergers are not as fledged out musically, as would be the case of bands that seek an onslaught of most of their influences in a single offensive—take A Crime of Passion. Necroblation rather achieves this by making their expressions stand alone. Both are ways that work out—while the former risks overwhelming the listener, and the latter provides a situation for surprises, not umlike jump scare.

  Child of Illusion comes out as the standout track—to apply the triviality of the word's literal sense—as it really is the record's magnum opus. Given the premises around this track, it easily qualifies as unconventional Black Metal. It is hazy enough to let souls wallow in the desired invocation; also applying a Black Metal convention, a bass drop that hits once the song starts. Considering the ensuing track, it is quite admissible Stab Your Self is more on straddling around genre staple, albeit with polished input, but not necessarily breaking new ground.

  This is a great walk-through across a number of sub/genres thrash holds together—from black metal to grindcore—with a stellar performance envisioned in the instumentals. To the convergence of sub/genres, good effort.

  3.5/5

FANTASY'S LITTLE DELIGHTS

 Language as we know it today, has come to morph into the most diverse and easiest means of expression. It is through it that communication systems of various people have found the best, if not the easiest way to convey the current state of play. From Tin Pan Alley to internet underbellies and all the span in between.

 In the world of Science Fiction, alien languages have more or less served a similar role. Even better, the lighthearted side is effectively sheened in daylight as seen in Confluence.

  Being a fictional language, it is well more than eleven million (Earth) years old, which is the figure for the time-period of Myrinian culture. Confluence has become of interest to the mortals of earth now that they have 'discovered' the Myrin planet. The inhabitants have so much to endure from the earthmen, in in regard to this parlance. With an etymological team headed for Myria, they sure make a good effort for a non complete, but still smile inducing (at the expense of the Myrinian way of life).

Excerpt.

  They found that Confluence is a language-cum-posture, and that meanings of words can be radically modified or altered entirely by the stance assumed by the speaker. There is therefore, no possibility of ever compiling a one-to-one dictionary of English-Confluence, Confluence-English words.

  Nevertheless, the list of Confluent words that follows disregard the stances involved, which number almost nine thousand and are all named, and merely offers a few definitions, some of which must be regarded as tentative.

  BIT SAN: A reverie lasting more than twenty years and of a blasphemous nature

  BI TUSI: A reverie lasting more than twenty years on cosmological themes

  KARNDOLI YON TOR: Mystical state attained through inaction; feasting; a learned paper on the poetry of metal

  NUT LAP ME: Dying of laughing

  SHE AN DORL: Gazing at one's reflection for reasons other than vanity

Even though on some definitions, Brian W. Aldiss seemed to pat himself on the back with smaug graces, the other thing to be taken away from this was the Dictionary-ish disregard for period.

GHOSTY (LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS)

 

  The fueling of a classic is never ensued by hype and razzmatazz, but its making is reliant on its peculiar pizzazz.

  The stewing of a classic heavily relies upon potting on the table the right amount of song lengths and album's clocking, besides an intro-outro trade-off of some songs. Makes for great listening/less chiming in with unnecessary interludes.

  A modern classic polishes its soundscapes by employing varied production repertoire.

  As with cuts of similar ilk, jam-packed with intense musicianship - not just great rapping -, rarely does one press skip. Ergo, neither is this different.

  A pure classic has enough cultural underpinnings to stand the test of time contextually, once the other aspects have been done with. Here there are contemporary underpinnings that could easily be of relevance beyond the present. However, after all lines pull their punches, there is/are the one or two ones that straddle cool or clutches.

  Making a date with Ghosty's Little Shop Of Horrors puts the point across what a seasoned rapper is, and what Ghosty is all about. It more than holds a candle to the film it pays homage to, as Ghosty tweeted;

We strivin for perfection over here.

— -Willis Reed, Sr.- (@Ghosty19s) May 5, 2015

5/5

SPELLBINDING (S/T)

  When Tim was convicted and finally got canned, it was bad news for the Hardcore/Metalcore scene. The drama that ensued meant game over for AILD. That was even worse news, that translated to a void that needed to be filled (in) eventually.

  Somehow AILD turns out to have a French cousin, nose-deep into symphonic music. This symphonic powerhouse is as bewitching as their name suggests. Spellbinding.

  I don't know if it would be a good thing to have lots of similar bands, or if one band would burst its creative artery  for having one too many bands drawing directly from its vein (forget genre watering down).The only positive thing is they could always be used in place of those Stock-Rock-Musac in crappy zombie movies (the culprit that is Zombie Hunters), for lack of better usage elsewhere.

  For the time, Spellbinding shall - with the ever refreshing symphonic assemblage - serve where the prowling spectre of AILD lurks.

4/5

SLAM ASSAULT (PURIFICATION THROUGH PRIMITIVE TORTURE)

  This already elaborates relentless about getting the punks intended for seated in the sod of sonority -- first notoriety.

  It is not every other time one comes across a band that wields two genres so majestically that one gets to question their perception of either, and more, the coin in query; as either of the two sides overlap, smoothing away the edges -- second quality.

  Slam Assault's smelting of Thrash riffs to ensure they cross over to the Punk and back in their metal state is a dance to the tune of sweet melody -- song of note: Innocent Crying.

  Here is an EP that's a dig straight to the bone. After all, it just weathers all flesh, and the chain-mail links give in to the metallic garbed mayhem. Overwhelmingly, Barcelona has a gem that sure knows primitivity is colourless, and effective, thus best conferred to the mohawk-clad folk.

4/5

THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS

This is my favorite painting. Fantastic + futuristic-looking structures.

An outstanding triptych by Heironymus Bosch.

The more I see... Yet to learn to let go!