CRUEL THERAPY (S/T)

  So it longs for, speaks like, hearkens and tirades as the Rap past gone? Definitely worth a check up?—tough call. With all its easy-going attitude and exuberant furnace of proficiency, Cruel Therapy is neither an ultimately good nor bad Hip Hop release.

  For anyone aesthetically reeling for the actual Hip Hop sound at around its peak, it's a very good listen. Right to that part. To consider the current date—the years passed between that age and now, it might border on passable beyond its beats.

  Cruel Therapy may have the ensnaring boom-bap on full display but lyrics-wise the Mad Mane Machine is bonkers for boundary pushers. Much worse music has similar content. Additionally is a willingness to give albums with outgoing covers a chance; over anything else—and now here things are, on Cruel Therapy's. Paying dues at times is not enough. Half sarcastic and half entertaining are skits involving fan interaction. Excellence to you. As a collective, more energy was concentrated and channeled into Fool on the Hill—managing to jab a the contemporary society, though I still remain apolitical.—Less impressive is an urge to be trendsetting (WTF!) with (skittish is the word) red carpet acclamation; based on what the album offers. Even retaining my partiality to the upliftingness portrayed in U​.​R​.​G. To an adult it comes off an embarrassing self assurance anthem, less to a younger listener.

  Such an expressive sail down, and the beats are attended to as clean-cutly as could be. The brash roughness found on Rotten Apples  strikes out the most on the album, especially after oftenly coming across corny ass choruses that denature a track by being forcefully pastiched ito A FUCKING RAP SONG! Only glad my time was not wasted.

DOPPELGANGERS XXIX

  Not long ago, the Scrawler featured a revivalist band, which is a case covered on the previous post. Horror Vacui assert so for the Post-Punk lay of the music 'scape—and competently. When HK8 starts disheveling with their Electonic miscreations, it comes off as ambience tinged efforts to less perplex an all-out Noise seeker. So much for an ironic title. The droning wars par!

—Horror Vacui
—HK8

DOPPELGANGERS XXVIII

 The way of the cenotaph. When viewing older DM band pictures, rampant graveyard shots pop up. In an effort to capture the spirit of the dead shift, below are monoliths of unhallowed spontaneity—kicking off with the most ghastly looking. Grey Mist delivers unhinged Doom, albeit touching on that aspect as Alunah extends on their most doomy—female vocals galloping too. Not far from where the Doom bands illustriously depict gargoyles and burial grounds sculpts. Wolf Dawn—the oddball here, is unrelenting blackened Speed Metal; which is enough to imply major ass kicking. Die already. . . .

—Misty Grey

—Veteris

XENO (ATLAS CONSTRUCT)

  Music—the mad Mane Machine'll straightforwardly admit—comes in two outstanding varieties. The outright blow-you-away and the sink-some-teeth-first. As an effect the former has less staying power—applying to majority of Pop and bangers (funny thing considering the nostalgic aspect overshadows this some time down the life). The mad Mane Machine's experience with Xeno is upon this line of distinction. Blown away at first listen . . . degradation with repeat absorption.

  It's always been on the hunt for progressive Death Metal. This had been birthed by a denotable bad habit of back-benching in class and prog/tech deathing by various means. Such lead to an encounter with Xerath, who at the time sounded off-kilter. To the admission of the Xeno guys, they do borrow a leaf from them. Expressively heard pumping and pulsating in the keyboard section, along a mixture of keyboards and grooves. As such, the mad Mane Machine's view is based on first impression—but judgement is based on a much calmer treatise of the unfoldings aided by replay.

  For a young band, it's a weighty burden to quickly quip with their hats flung into the field of their emulations. Having some Djent permeations that instigate the Gojira-esque groove laden brushes upon the cavernous walls of Death Metal. Here is more of a passing than a missing link between Meshuggah and Gojira; with a keyboard component—the inner section offers no surprise when the listener lends their selves to this. With that said, it is more of a quick blend of the two with more an assimilating effect on the latter band—and the quicker the connection, the more charged its fix; sterilizing long-term stance. And if one started out similarly—endless prog death quests, the hunt will be on faster than they can say gesundheit.

  None a diabolical act to say Atlas Construct is a burden that is straining to collapse on itself, for has not the album art professed it in all an earth-bound glory—the band's choice. Hard to unsee and discord such an impression. The Mad Mane Machine would be more stoked for a second release and actually appreciate to have a definite stand reiterated. hath a quick fire be a sure fire—a hefty fix, or a diverting impression.

RUPTURED BIRTH (TRANSMUTANT)

  Canada has seen an upsurge of great Death Metal bands—especially tech death. With such laid groundwork for expected high repute in the country's metal exports, it would be highly safe to suggest listenership to a band from the mentioned North American soil. Inadvertently, it seems the bar was set too high by the predecessors, given the potential acumen of Ruptured Birth and a failure to completely allure.

  Since this is Brutal Death Metal and not much should be expected—a terrible precept by itself—as it denounces and dents better instigators. Suppurating a slam catch-all which make the band's overhead additions seem like a joke. If anything, Unnatural Selection is the best way forward for Ruptured Birth—by virtue of expressing this song. Saprogenic coalesces a rabies sample that admonishes any belief of anything great forthcoming; a not so promising pace-setter it would rather be satisfying to listen to Katalepsy's Rabid as a better exchange. The whole idea of the song is taking the brutal death metal usual, but palely—by huge repetition of breakdowns and the lead work. The shrieks are far from saving grace by point of eccentrically aplombing non stand-out growls. A basis that falls upon Strogg once it sparks flashy Rings of Saturn sides, furthered along the release.

  Hurtling, very much on the side of miss upon few hits like parts of Blood Siren—where it is catch off-guard; repeat the grabber. Brutal Death Metal that wants to slam possessively, with ties to tech death, but still wants to have a demeanor which pulls off like it owes Deathcore its existence. This time straddling has cost somebody—good thing it is a brutal death metal band?

  The Shape threatens to parlay its sample the Craniotomy serial killer style—however, checking on sample length. Rhythm goes a bit fuzzy compacting annihilating no-frills riffs. Such fuzziness heads straight into the next track. Once with textured solos that overrun ears with technical patterns plus slam accentuations. Samples start to teeter on overload. Taking on a sharp experimental offset is the finisher—or assorted phase before bonus tracks that might well be enjoyed from their original EP—provides the only substance to hold on to.

  This is no different from what has already been said concerning horror and science fiction intermingles. An art that is equal to lack of identity well represents the content it helps wrap. Horrific sci-fi or science fictional horror—if it has enough science orientation to be gauging futures. What Ruptured Birth espouse is non confounded footing in gory medicinal havoc which would matter less had they encapsulated it with brisk butchery.

CLASSIC (BACK TO THE PAST)

  In a way, there is no longer a need for the Doctor to explain time warping by the chalk-board—time travel has relieved itself to less mass confusion. No more obfuscation for the sake. Much better, if one wakes up to a Hip Hop time capsule. When the Mad Mane Machine was not being around when some of the greats Classic resolves to sampling were dropping these releases, what wasn't on Back To The Past was an awareness of its existence.

  More of a mixtape and a fun release, Back To The Past 2 pays homage to some of the older MCs the rapper admits to have—still studying it occurs—studied; the old school. Any definite way than a Delorean rapture? As wont are up-comers to spray and flex their verbals on staid releases' instrus—whichever side of the rap day they lay—the traction gained and/or attracted determines how much of a spitter was in the offing.

  On an otherwise revelational lay-out, the line of sci-fi is drawn strictly on a reference to a thriving genre hey day. Featuring instrumentals—albeit a usual bangers case—overdubbed with rhymes that cover, among others: them bitches, how 100, the grind, other rappers. Well, it might as well be when a slew of cues and patterns run from Kendrick Lamar, Busta Rhymes, to Ghostface Killah. Much-a-very.

  Teflon Da Don features twice—the only guest—and does his best Busta on first appearance. How about a caution? That sci-fi sells—second if not better than oversexulization—and everybody's buying. Optimus Rhyme went for the same jugular massively. The closest Chris Webby descended to genre-ling were game references. For this release, it works just fine. Stopping at that is a let-down to anybody else leaping in with sci-fi expectations. So much it ruined Future Rhythm for the Mad Mane Machine. Ah, shit—then where is sci-fi rap! Holding his own but fuck—not enough justice. Goddamn.

QUO VADIS (DEFIANT IMAGINATION)

  Taking my time to accept accidents don't happen—that stems from a failure to account how I came across Quo Vadis, despite how popular this band seems to be even if it sounded remotely familiar. The lads churn out some of the best of in death metal—which is assembled from the genre stalwarts past and present. Adding various edges to their take on death metal—wasting no time to combine melody and technicality.

  Matthew Sweeney is one hell of a vocalist albeit not perfect. It takes enormous breath control to pull a feat as done on the album opener. Making no difference if done by low growl or a high pitched singing as Kiske—bottom line is control; challenging as trying either is. His flaw is noticeable in track four—sounding strained where all instruments bar one have been stripped away—how much vocalists' flaws do they hide. There is a bridge appearing before the main vocal work which lieges the path of Overkill's Necroshine in the refrain supporting part. A literal death-bat, skull-bashing with death metal.

  Majestic kicker is To the Bitter End—written with music in mind, and technicality at heart; just like the rest of the album, where it's the actual music and end product matters more than impressing with sideshows that will appeal to fellow instrumentalists—but not strictly to them. Silence Calls the Storm lays at the figurehead of Beyond Creation together with the opener and the second song, emulating them to a limited degree. The bassist is a straight-up face of BC, and yes he does not take center-stage if only an effective pulsating presence.

  When putting their Death hats on, they must have been beanies. The close-tying Tunnel Effect (Element of the Ensemble IV) hangs away to prevent cloning and duplication. Hearkening Born Dead—especially the drum work—as the guitarists exhibit their lopped emulations that reach the acme of a Schuldiner solo. Title track too, alongside In Contempt. The opera version of an interlude introduces some female vocals—which is not a surprise when the closing track pummels melodeath with a gushing propensity for a slight sullenness.

  My appreciation for the album went further into the thoughtful title as the lyrics may want to fledge into an existence by themselves—one to be hung onto dearly with their clearly stated observations. Not to attach the listener(s)—they should listen, apprehend and detach.

LAMENT CHRIST (IN VENTUS EST DOLOR...)

  The life of black and white. It is such a gloomy and grainy leaning for dedicated doomsters and far end black metallers. Misanthropy neither is colourful but its charm in Doom's diatribes is indescribable with a completist drift; more-so its adverse effect on mood, disposition, and spirits. Of importance is inclination to willingly allow its encompassment. Totally.

  Funeral Doom relies on entirely crushing and subjugating the partakers in its playing and consumption. Emotional deterioration. On my part—since discovering DBM and Doom, satiation has strained over the pale horizon. Lament Christ's demo forays into this exact expanse, with its meanderings and moments of delivery. Clocking away as a procession, with what can be termed as field samples—harnessed space and nocturnal life forms.

  A lot on its gushing sorrow—In Ventus Est Dolor...—heavily relies on Black Metal. Times are plenty when the guitars meticulously drear from BM to Doom with a visible and soul-searing temperament—streaks of dark melancholy are hewn from the BM riffs abruptly, and equally for the inverse. Melody multiplies with its unfolding; and once The Cry of the Loon...—really an expanse—trails off, BM guitars emanate, usurping but their effect is nary close to limited. Sometimes trading or sharing sections with the slower Doom.

  This rendition of Funeral Doom as effective as its approach is, is mournfully unreplicated—even though its countenance and amplitude seems to have prostrated Locus Horrendus - The Night Cries of a Sullen Soul... tremendously. The tortured growls—the proficiently purveyed that make (Funeral) Doom a force to reckon with, terms with extending sorrow—lay to waste any sense of forgoing a dismayed existence; elevating the sense of hopelessness—amidst clean singing and humming. Screams relay an emotional peak and are eminently staged at moments of heightened playing and musical intensity. Locus Horrendus followed suit, as Desire accosted themselves to the whole array: spoken word—poignant growls of grief and piano sections with a sonata of sorts that provides the listener with context to be really pensive—outbursts of howls; only relegating the BM. Which is a few steps to being the albums distraction.

This is for contemplating sorrow and its accompanying misery at sundown, with the help of thunderpeal. It only gets depressing, with the channeling evocation that unfurls past the half mark—which matter-of-factly is unnoticable since the songs are lethargical across the seamlessness. This music is best aided by environment and outdoor surroundings for total impact. Is it summer? Take an evening away from civilization.

K21 (ANTS)

  A(n un)certain entity looks like Leonard Nimmoy—clutching hyper to its instrument of Electronic perversion. This is undeniably a serious business. Beautifully crafted to befit dance music with coruscating breaks and corresponding hollowness in dimension.

  The man's craft supersedes deification. K21 is an expulse to intelligent dance where his frets and devotions are exhilarating occupations of preceptive drums and perfusions that simulate the effects of—if amid samples—annihilating the organic reach of vocals. The present vocal samples are as alien and fiendish as a morose Klingon—with blood-thirst and war-lust. Rune prevents the music from engraving and etching the auditory preference with inadequately descriptive pounding. The airy ride shuttles from concoction to decantation. Hurtling forth into battle of cymeks.

  As a rhythm of articulation, it freights convening formulations. Preamble openings that play along sotto voce. This is grand and mighty. It is not enough trouble preventing other activities getting in its way. Every sound delicacy  is birthed in a bleeding permeation. Holy shit!—the death march—the storm—the Ajax. Where art thou Industrial freaks. Discretion hath now faced unearthing. Inundated by a linear finish—punish and taper. Inferior ants got no indemnity against the militial—nullify and eschew. This cover art is freaking superb. Close-up and blur. Ajax run the world.

  Confined to a Synthpop furnish is closure Voicesback, and it's not much of a stretch. Parallaxed by echoing overwolds of sounds. An Industrial rafting appraise that whiffs into synth corruscations. Into submission thou shalt descend. No smarmy.

DOPPELGANGER XXIII

  With a circuit oriented logo, it's quite disappointing that MetaVoid is not sci-fi oriented. It could fall into the math fiction section to dispense. That creates a nice backlink to sci-fi. Sharing a hexahedron of the Metatron's Cube, they rep earth—blatantly—of the six elements. Geoda plays more extreme music—the two are progressive Metal bands.

—Djent
—Death Metal

BODYCALL (MECHANICALLY RECOVERED MEAT / STATES OF EXCEPTION

  Bodycall! There is EBM and there is discovering Bodycall. Its mechanical logo symbolises a club crunching menace. Embrace the dark disheveling—

LEERED MYTH CLAIRVOYANCE MACE / MECHANICALLY RECOVERED MEAT.

  BODYCALL - MECHANICALLY RECOVERED MEAT

VITAL BEAM CAME CHOCY - LOCALLY RENDERED

BEYOND CONTROL (2009 COMATOSE MIX)
EXALTED ITS (2900) COMMON CRYO BOON

DISCIPLES OF HEDONE (CLUB MIX)
EXPEND FLUID BLISS (CHIME COO)

YOU AND ME (RECOVERY MIX)
COAX REVERIE (YON DUMMIE)

FOOLS' PARADISE (TOO DISCO MIX)
DISSECT FLOOR AXIOM (AID COOP')

FOOLS' PARADISE (HARSH MIX)
AIR OF RASH HEX (AMISS' PLOD)



Here is a great release I never get enough of. Voy delivers a compelling vocal performance with damn good lyrics—too fitting. Pure hails.


BODYCALL - STATES OF EXCEPTION

ACE LOFT - BOLTS STEADY LEXICON

REVOLUTION AT YOUR GATES
RATES TO VALUE YOUNG RIO T

DISINTEGRATION (FACTORY MIX)
SIMIAN DOCTOR FIX (GYRATE IN IT)

NAKED LIFE
FAKED LINE / FEED A LINK

DISINTEGRATION
TIED TO INGRAINS

ELECTRO HAVOK
CHEER TO VOCAL

BADBADNOTGOOD AND GHOSTFACE KILLAH (SOUR SOUL)

  Word was that BadBadNotGood got the goat of Jazz purists. Not fucking smooth Jazz listeners. The Mad Mane Machine is yet to find out how their collaboration with Ghostface Killah relates to Guru's Razzmatazz efforts. Ghostface was a choice, solidified by veteran status, appeal, and content.

  Striking a chord of patriotism with the trendy new school Long. Live. A$ap—not something I would really care about—as Starks poses with his country's flag. Could have done better than this. The situation is similar to that of rapper; and producer in the shadows but name. Accessible is the name and mainly a Rap overlay. It may have been released at the golden age of Hip Hop and still fall in line—especially Gunshowers which is a classical case of New York boom-bap. Featuring Etching consistently swordsmithing along his elder. They street along glorifying bath salts that Lefteris rasping about these drugs, alongside their effects on the track Tormenting the Innocent comes close once the "I'm a damn vocalist/my throat so heavy" line drops. Powerful instrumental.

  Danny Brown's egregiously hurtling flow simmers Six Degrees. A cat who has landed features on substantial releases like Cancer for Cure. The Gunshowers Starks profiles the Yapp City Killah. This is the Tony Starks that blew me away—his greatest feature effort. Along saxes, Mind Playing Tricks

reaches for the melodic perfervid percussion—alhough not to the levels of Ghostdini—providing the album's second name-drop for Supreme Clientele.

  Followed by another boom bap slammer—laid back this time—that has Tree sounding like Like Father Like Son Weezy. Syrup. Street knowledge is for fools in the name of Triple 9's Chris Allen. Now rises the need to put the Fallujah kid to rest. Polar a moment as two supers provide a destructuring super-hero but lyrically fair track on Ray Gun. MF Doom's verse is better.

  Nobody would expect sub-par work from Ironman. He is a man one would anticipate with high hopes and fail to bedisappointed. Soul Sour is a short excursion which I would count on the super-hero broke little to no adding to hisrepertoire. Bump this shit everywhere.

CFS (ENOUGH IS ENOUGH)

  Punk is a core genre. Whenever I fall back to splitting. Far as sub-genres go, Electronic can not be out-fashioned. Only Punk and Metal come close enough. The three frothing together The Mad Mane Mane Machine is yet to come across. Aesthetic-wise, it is more than possible.

   Simplicity and melody are the first synonyms that best describe a lot of punk. On a recent forefront is Burnt Cross' execution. Clear and concise fuckin' Punk. Simplistic does not stand for defective (mostly) if still not a relation for all Punk bands. One of those rare outfits that completely stretch and entrench can be portrayed by CFS.

  From the heart of Greece—a Mediterranean region derricking forth music The Mad Mane Machine only wishes it could keep up—is a pinnacle and a paragon—Enough is Enough. Hardly inconspicuous is its flirt with Post-Hardcore commencing the prolapse to eminence. Liakos sounds pissed and gruff, with a rough voice to give the music some ID. The extent may not be much if you consider what Jessie Williams does for her acoustic punk—fucking raspy BM. Descent into the rest of the songs has a heavy Oi! preoccupation and the drums would be home to Milkman from The Netherlands' music. Melody and precision are par, a blend with no oscillation. I was the last to expect a Post-Rock insertion to a Punk band, but what the hell—it is as natch as it could ever be written to be, not a farrago.

  Detractors of Punk should let CFS bear witness. The Metal effications are far and wide. Cexyst speaks of infusions that hit the heart, a reflection of OG BM. But Punk does not need anybody. As for Pop goes Punk . . .

BLACK TOWER (INERYA)

  The sleeve art of Inerya portrays a gothic parchment—written in ink. It may pass for darkly permeating—but beyond such, any speculation prior to familiarity with Dark Tower is a chase collapsing on desolation, dreariness, ineptitude.

  Polish duo in the name of Dark Tower writes a condensed, dripping love letter to Electronic music in general. Polished with nuances and out research that rely on patience. The mainstay of the first half is EBM as Marivsz prevails to find vocal matches to the sound surges. Duch may resonate to anIndustrialist with its oral instrumentation, the adulterated throbs around the most part of the first into the second minute mark that pave way to tamed abrasions abstracting the higher second minute. Feniks nicely serves Aggrotech, preparing the grounds for palpitating, hard-hitting drums delivered in Czarna Wieza. An absolute ear-crawling inhabitant. It is so energetic the impact is felt once the lessly pitched intro to the progressing track incurs. A leisure permeating its shank to/fro energy releases and gains evenly around the record.

  Revelations of the letter compel further once Diabel w Nim tinctures in a truncation unprecedented by going the Wave way, including some songs on this section. Merging it with EBM as the vocals ribald-like some words and entrance others. Ending in a very Vangelis manner. Just as the pace starts to relay a relaxation that is Inny, which is Trance In essence—that permeated Czarna Wieza—with keystrokes, Kardio U-turns closure severely. Its placement is only a matter of preference. To end on an upbeat.

  Inerya is an album whose significance is not a mere breath or happenstance. The Mad Mane Machine can commend it for lack of weak tracks whatsoever, where familiarization and enjoyment are lineal. It is a formidable run, but listenable in a single sitting. Designed to create an impact that necessitates (a) return.

DARK BLACK CORE (GATE OF DIMENSIONS)

  In all honesty, I could not complete listening to this release. For all the achromaticness it could adhere to, it is not justice to make it run for almost the better part of an hour. Is this Noise? Relativity applies, as well as as it's dis/praise.

  These are sounds or a structured and slightly ornamented sound from a howl. An indecisive fleet. A hell hole may have graced the cover art and all would work as fine as the portal. It is an instance of where the two or the closest fruit falls from the tree would only work.

  A question would be if pretentiousness would be cape enough to let the listener apply their own philosophy to justify a listen. Heck, had the artist brought about their own, would it still justify? Would it matter if it's a deviant work of an actual musician or just another shot of random? Would Jackson Pollock have mattered if he was no trained artist beforehand?

A GAGGLE OF PANELOUXX (ANTS)

  Where Harsh Noise offers bleaker and even terminating permeations, a different spectrum broods liquefied chapters seething forth to project a charismatic storyline. 

  Acromyrmex reanimates the scenario of Simon in The Double. Fitfully quite, the album's sleeve renders the same uncolourful hues of gloom as he mundanely cogs his way regularly in the machine. It is in a certain consistency with the tapering tensions similar to a workplace typewriter, only to shift out excruciatingly as time ticks away. 

  These subterranean wavelengths take a jab at the upper world incomprehensibly. To ponder on the frequencies of Hive Mind Transmissions may offer a sequential explanation to the unity and hardwired leanings on which disgusting humanity is a slave to. James happens to transform from Simon. The mutualism sets in from a one sided symbiosis, down to James' replication of Kleptoparasites.

  Simon's dismantling never gets undone. A semblance relating to the zombie ants, fungi infected with infested brains, starting with bunged up community, ending with individual explosion. The sad suddenness captured in an iota of Anti-Fungus Mutualism. One must pave way for the other. Exit Simon.

DOPPELGANGERS XXII

  Spiral out-progresses itself on Mind Trip in A Minor! With an array of soulfully maneuvered styles; Psychedelic progressive Rock, Space- and copious Post-Rock oeuvres—the album is meant to be absorbed as a cataract-less stream. More than works.

   Omen throbs outwards splinting. Heralds of the un-Black Metal world, Antestor, permeate with a passaged dominance: A slight sympho work halfway through; atmospheric littering ahead, culminating with syncopation; Acoustics; And, violins.

  Featuring the artwork of Zdzisław Beksiński, The Horn Player.

—Art Rock
—Black Metal

 

HORROR VACUI (RETURN TO THE EMPIRE)

  More Post-Punk. Horror Vacui self describe as punker than dark, darker than punk. Kinda chuckle benefiting stuff. Straight Post-Punk/Goth mash stuff you bet. Deathrock once 5000 palpitates into the melee. Chunks of proliferating missives on a mission to darken auditory perceptions. Even a fusion of Post-Punk and Deathrock is nothing to bring out the best in a band, but a mixture of the best of both worlds.

  Clear cut black and  white. Covered in a two-way infusion as the soundscapes shift and trade sides with either. A rocker could be pulled. A punker can take. A goth should commit. It heavily corresponds with The Cure school of Post-Punk. A somehow competent singer at hand, leading the listener along to the rhythm of the riffs, otherwise letting the main sequences of the lead to shine on such a cold seeker of inclines.

  Light of Darkness offers some speed and urgency. Deathrock and Post-Punk really beautifully fuse here, on paced amplitudes. This is a stolid exemplification amid the embueing chaos and effervescence. A melding that perseveres onto the ensuing track. Though this is a much relaxed one. Continuing with the ever minimalist Post-Punk drum work.

  The lyrics revolve around antis and everyday livelihood. Somnolent and belying thoughts fortified in less augur sangfroid to the sing-song extensions. Keeping it coming, keeping it coldish.

DOPPELGANGERS XXI

  So much music, so little time! 1994 and music have always been on a measured breath, once uttered together. For Hip Hop it's the inescapable indispensable Big Apple boom bap—Illmatic. Out of countless imitators is an equal of listless (direct) influences.  This is a by no means exhaustive list.

  Some fun has been had.  And then some. . . . 

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DOPPELGANGERS XVIII

  Daybreak contributed this Powerviolence-heavy release to their God-tier split with The Ultimate Warriors; who deliver with massive Grindcore assault. As a lone offering, Convicted is the updated version of Cryptic Slaughter's . . . Convicted. In Grind we Crust!

—Powerviolence
—Crossover